


The Width of a Circle

by wordybirdy



Series: From Trifle to Infinity [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the New Year of 1888, where Mycroft drops a bombshell and Holmes & Watson find themselves embroiled in an extraordinary mystery.  Three men disappear without trace at a party.  What became of them?  H & W established relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bun and Bombshell

“A very Happy New Year to you, my dear fellow.”

I placed a light kiss to my friend's forehead – him being preoccupied at that moment with a small square of buttered toast – and sat down to join him at our first breakfast of 1888.

“Good morning, John,” he replied, with a smile. “You are already the third to wish me a Happy New Year, and it is barely 8 o'clock. I am rather hoping you might be the last.”

“Mrs. Hudson and the postman were the first two, I presume,” I replied, chuckling. “Well, that very much depends on if you plan on venturing outside our front door today, Holmes. Do you have a case at present?”

“No,” said he, instantly sombre. “No, I do not have a case.” He chewed meditatively at the remains of his toast.

The weeks prior to the festive season had seen Holmes quite remarkably busy, with a great many clients paying us call, and a good number of enquiries successfully concluded which led us up to the end of the old year. But now came the inevitable ebb after the flow; those precious few days – weeks, even -- when most might enjoy the opportunity to relax, recharge and prepare for new challenge. Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, was not such a man. He could not abide rest or ease. His great brain, ever engaged, ever champed at the bit for fresh ground. These moments of lull were an anathema to him.

“There were no letters in the morning delivery?” I asked.

He shook his head. “There were none.” He sighed, softly. “I suppose it is to be expected. But all the same.”

“They will come,” I said, comfortingly. I had no doubt that they would. My friend flashed me a grateful smile.

“In the meantime,” he said, “perhaps we might be fortunate to receive a small snippet of news from Gregson or Lestrade. I live in faint hope, for the newspapers are full of air as usual.”

“I wonder how Gregson is faring,” I said, thinking back to our Christmas Eve celebrations, and the events that had taken place then. “I hope that it all came to something. He deserves a little happiness.”

“Ah, Watson, you are ever the romantic,” said Holmes. He rose from the breakfast table and moved across to the window to gaze out over the street. “Lestrade must have felt _quite_ out of place that evening.”

“And Mycroft too, I would say,” I added.

Holmes shrugged. “Who knows where Mycroft's head is at,” he said, “except at that bizarre angle upon his neck. So let us hope, then, that we hear from Gregson in the first instance, that you might plumb him for a little gossip, eh?”

He reached out and gently clipped my ear. I caught his hand and pulled it back to me.

“I know what I would rather plumb, right now,” I said, in a low voice. I caressed the sleeve of his dressing-gown, ran my fingers inside it, thumbed over the delicate bone of his wrist.

“How coarse of you.” I felt warm breath at my right ear of a sudden. “How terribly, awfully coarse.” The voice withdrew, as did the body attached to it; softly away and to its chair by the fireplace. Holmes looked back at me, and smiled. “It is a little early for that, my dear fellow,” he explained, apologetically. “And you had me only last night,” he added, as though that should make a deal of difference.

“We had better source alternative amusement, then,” I said ruefully, buttering my toast and sipping sweet tea from my cup. “I shall drag you outside for a walk. You are not to stay cooped up in here all day long, sulking about the lack of work.”

One hour later, Holmes and I were strolling about London, as it was our frequent pleasure to do. The heavy snow drifts had thawed, yet the chill wind remained, and it whipped at our scarves and collars as we pushed on into the face of it. The streets were oddly deserted; the city felt almost as some barren place in the hold of a grim epidemic. But then we spied faces and life behind frosted shop windows, and the warm yellow lights from within. Aromatic spices from the bakery tempted us inside, whereupon we emerged with paper bags full of delicious rolls and pastries.

“We shall never be able to eat all of this,” Holmes complained, juggling packages. “How is it that whenever I am with you, we end up somehow at a bakery, or a cheesemonger, or some other ridiculous merchant's stall?”

“Because it is pleasurable to eat good things,” I told him, linking my arm with his as we made our way back home. “And I am doing my best to put a little weight on you, Holmes, for you are as slender as a broomstick, still, despite all of Mrs. Hudson's Christmas cooking.”

“Yes, well,” said he, pretending to grumble but amused all the same, “I have no intention of bursting my waistcoat buttons for the either of you.”

We made a detour via Bradley's the tobacconist, thereby further ladening the pockets of our coats, and then took on a burst of speed as a misting rain began to fall. Turning the corner into Baker Street, I observed a carriage standing outside 221B.

“Holmes, I think we have a visitor,” I said, squinting through the drizzle.

Holmes groaned and squeezed my arm. “Watson, do you not recognise the carriage? It is brother Mycroft's. What the devil can he be wanting? Surely it cannot be to wish us yet more compliments of the season. It must be of import. I do hope it is a case.”

Stepping inside the hallway, we brushed down our wet clothes and ascended the stairs. It appeared that Mrs. Hudson had already shown our guest into the sitting-room, for the door was ajar. Holmes grasped the handle and swung it open.

“Mycroft, a good morning to you,” said he, stepping into the room, depositing his packages upon the sideboard before turning around to face his elder brother. “What brings you here today?”

Mycroft Holmes had been reclining in his preferred chair by the fire, quite possibly having just taken a pinch of snuff, for he was dabbing at his lapel with a voluminously extravagant silk handkerchief. He rose halfway out of the chair to greet us, before sinking back into the cushions.

“Sherlock. Doctor Watson,” he said, nodding and waving at us with the silk. He paused, then, as though there were words he was desirous to say but he was not entirely certain in which order he might put them. “How are you?” he ventured finally, his deep-set eyes searching us both.

“We are very well, thank you, Mycroft,” said Holmes. He picked up one of the paper bags. “Have some bun.”

“I did not come here for bun,” replied Mycroft. “I came here to impart a piece of news. I would prefer it if you might both sit down first.”

Holmes and I exchanged a swift glance. Mycroft Holmes's nerves appeared on edge; he fidgeted with his handkerchief still, and scratched anxiously at his chin. “Sit, sit!” he repeated, motioning that we do so.

Holmes acquiesced, in the chair opposite to his brother. I seated myself upon the sofa. We waited expectantly for the news.

“Does it relate to Government?” my friend asked, intensely curious by now.

Mycroft shook his head.

“No, Sherlock, it does not. It is news of a personal nature, and I do wish that you would listen.”

“You will need to form articulate sentences for us to comply with that request, Mycroft,” replied my friend, resting his head against the chair wing, his eyes closed, brows tight together.

“I am engaged to be married,” said Mycroft.

The three of us shared a brief moment of stunned silence. Holmes, for his part, started upright in his chair with eyes wide open and jaw slightly askew. I was rather more taken by my friend's singular reaction than with my own still considerable surprise.

“I do beg your pardon, Mycroft,” said he, “but I could have sworn that you just informed us you were engaged to be married.”

Mycroft tutted in irritation. “And so I am.”

“How?”

Mycroft sighed heavily.

“Sherlock, do not be offensive. I am sure you know precisely what the ritual entails, and that it is conceivable and indeed possible for a Holmes descendent to be betrothed.”

“I also am betrothed, Mycroft,” Holmes snapped, “although by the confounded laws of this country it is a crime that would see me imprisoned. And yet I am as committed as any gentleman could ever be.” He looked to me, then, and my heart swelled with proud love.

“Sherlock, this is not about you,” said Mycroft. “And I wish that you would not twist my words in such a manner. I shudder at the very thought of introducing you to Sophronia, ill-tempered brother that you are.”

“That is the lady's name?” said Holmes. “It sounds more like a throat infection. But I do congratulate you both, nonetheless.”

“You are naturally both invited to the wedding,” Mycroft continued, wisely ignoring his brother's jibe, “which will, I think, be sooner rather than later. We shall keep you informed.”

“Mycroft,” I said, “this is all very splendid news, and we are happy for you, but it is all so sudden. Might we enquire as to when you met the young lady? You made no mention of her when last we saw you.”

“I have known Sophronia for... a little while,” replied Mycroft. “Her conversation delights me, the company she keeps is unassuming, and we have kept very much to ourselves these past months. If I do not introduce you to her beforehand, then we shall most certainly make up for it at the reception. And now, dear brother, Doctor, I must be on my way, for I have many calls to make and had not anticipated needing to wait here for you quite so interminably.”

Mycroft Holmes shook his brother's hand and mine also, then made his departure from our rooms, whence we heard his carriage start up and rattle away down the street. Holmes looked at me, slowly shaking his head in bemusement.

“I never thought to see this happen,” said he. “Mycroft has always been as solitary a creature as I, before I met you. The lady Sophronia must be exceptional indeed, or there is something quite amiss here.”

“It is strange that he should not mention her,” I said, thoughtfully. “Their courtship seems to have been a rapid one. I wonder...” and then I stopped, for I did not wish to appear vulgar.

“Yes,” said Holmes, “I wonder that too.” He laughed. “The old dog might have life in him yet. Perhaps he was making haste today to choose a white rug for the nursery.”

We stood and chuckled together at the image that that brought.

“Mycroft is 41, is he not?” I said. “Which is a very good age for a fellow to settle down and start a family -- if one is so inclined.”

“Enough now of nurseries and families,” said Holmes, “otherwise it will only make you maudlin.” He wrapped his arms around me from behind, and nuzzled his nose into my hair. “I am enough of a child for anyone to cope with,” he added. I heard the smile in his voice, and leaned back into its embrace.

“Oh, I would not say that,” I murmured. “I would not say that, at all.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One week passed us by, and very slowly, as weeks are wont to do when there is nothing much to fill them. A further snowfall greeted us upon the Tuesday morning, but with a merciful thaw by the Thursday. We took a great many rambling walks, read a greater number of books, and speculated much on brother Mycroft's mysteriously nebulous nuptials. On the 6th, we celebrated Holmes's birthday quietly with an excellent dinner and a visit to the theatre. I noticed by the Friday that my dear friend was drifting further into one of his dreaded states of dark ennui, and I began to wonder what I might possibly do to relieve it. In the event, we were both spared when the doorbell rang the following Monday morning, and Inspector Gregson set his boots upon our hearthrug.

“It is very good to see you, Gregson,” said Holmes. “I am half rigid from tedium. I must warn you that if it is not a murder or a mystery you are calling about today then I shall feel compelled to fling you straight back down the stairs.”

The Inspector chuckled.

“I am luckily saved, then, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “as it is indeed a curious business for which I am seeking your advice. It has baffled us all at the Yard.”

“Well, now, that is never a difficult thing to do,” my friend replied. He straightened up in his chair, as eager as a foxhound now, sniffing for the details. “Sit down there on the sofa, and tell us what has happened. Watson, my dear fellow, would you be so kind as to take notes? Thank you.”

Gregson took a seat, rested his hands upon his knees and began to recount the facts to us.

“There is a gentleman by the name of Mr. Ninian Sessamy, who resides with his wife at a property called The Four Treetops, a pleasant three-storey on Lower Boldingthorpe Lane. This fellow is an engineer by trade, and a successful one, too, for at only six and twenty he already owns his own business, which I understand his having inherited along with a large sum of money from his late father this past year.

“Mr. Sessamy is apparently a sociable gentleman, holding very regular parties at his home. It was at one such party on the evening before last, Mr. Holmes, that this most mysterious occurrence took place.”

Holmes leaned forward, his expression intent. “Pray continue, Gregson,” said he.

“A number of people had been invited, naturally. Among the dozen or so mixed guests there were three fellows, all amiable acquaintances of Mr. Sessamy, who were present that evening with their respective young ladyfriends. At one point the party seemed to take off into various agreeable directions: the three fellows I mentioned decided that they wished to play a hand of cards, and took themselves off to the second sitting-room. The remaining gentlemen took to the Billiards table in the games room, and the ladies moved into the main sitting-room for conversation and music.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, it might surprise you when I tell you that the three gentlemen who went to play their hand of cards did not reappear that evening. In fact, they have not been heard from since. They have quite vanished, without notice to anyone, and there is not one single trace left of any of them.”

My friend was beside himself with delight. He wriggled in his chair.

“This is delicious,” he said, “absolutely delicious. Three of them vanished without trace! Was everyone else accounted for while these three were in the second sitting-room at their cards? Assuming that they arrived at that room, of course?”

Gregson nodded.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “Mr. Sessamy was at the Billiards table. His wife was in the main sitting-room. They both have witnesses who swear that they never left those areas until the disappearances were reported. Turner the butler divided his time between the two rooms I just mentioned, and Ethel Adams the cook tells us she was in the kitchens with the dishes, and did not see or hear a thing.”

“Who observed that the three gentlemen were missing?” asked Holmes.

“A young lady by the name of Mildred, a friend of one of the three. She had mislaid her purse, and was anxious. She thought that perhaps her young fellow had it in his pocket for safekeeping, and she wished to check this with him. When she could not locate them anywhere, she raised the alarm, and the house was searched to no avail.”

“Had anything been taken from the property?” Holmes enquired.

“Sessamy reported nothing had been stolen. The young lady's purse was recovered shortly afterwards, in the main sitting-room.”

“Hmm,” said Holmes. “And what about any secret passages, where a guest or three might have gone exploring and gotten themselves carelessly lost?”

“We have found none,” replied Gregson, “and Sessamy informs us that he is not aware of any. He and his wife have lived at the property for three years, so they should know. Besides, we should have heard them shouting for help, if that was the case.”

Holmes stretched his legs out from his chair.

“Then, Inspector,” said he, “I imagine that you might be requiring the presence of the good Doctor and myself at The Four Treetops this afternoon?”

Inspector Gregson's face broke into a broad smile.

“Oh yes, Mr. Holmes,” he said, “we really would, indeed, if you might both be available.”

“Expect us for midday,” said my friend, nodding.


	2. The Four Treetops

“We forgot to ask Gregson about Victor,” I said, upon the Inspector's departure a few minutes later.

Holmes looked up from packing his pipe. “ _You_ did, you mean,” he said. “Gregson's amorous entanglements are not of the slightest interest to me.” He jabbed his black clay at me. “I have a case, Watson!”

I laughed at his joy. “Yes,” I said, “it looks as though you have. Thank goodness.”

“It might prove to be something a little out of the ordinary,” my friend continued. “For three gentlemen surely do not vanish into thin air without good reason, or at least one person's witness. We shall see.”

He proceeded to bustle around the sitting-room, gathering up various small utensils which he stuffed into his coat pockets. He passed by me en route to his magnifying lens, and swatted at my rear with the palm of his hand.

“Move,” said he, “you are in the way.”

I moved. “Do you have any theories?” I asked.

“Hmm?” Holmes was preoccupied with an item in his desk drawer. “Well, no, not yet. Watson, how many times have I told you that it is a capital mistake to theorise in advance of the facts? And the only fact we can be sure of at present is that these unfortunate friends of Mr. Ninian Sessamy have disappeared to who knows where. It is my job now...” -- and here he paused, to glance into the wall mirror and to run a smoothing hand through his hair – “... it is my job now to eliminate the impossible.”

He sat down on the edge of his chair, then, lit his pipe and puffed away at it, lost to my presence and no doubt vacuous questions. When the pipe was down to the ashes he rose up and tapped my shoulder, and we took up our coats to stride out and hail a hansom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The journey to Lower Boldingthorpe Lane took us a little over 30 minutes, rattling at a brisk clip down streets unusually clear of the busy to and fro of London traffic. It was a few minutes after noon when the carriage drew up outside The Four Treetops, and we stood down to take our first look around. Holmes paid the driver, tipping him well, and we stepped through the wrought iron gates.

The property was a three storey detached, set within its own gardens and surrounded by a stone wall perhaps five feet in height, with neighbouring buildings on either side. The lawns and beds were well tended notwithstanding the harsh weather, and I imagined that it would surely be a remarkable place to stroll through in the full bloom of Summer. A solitary constable stood to attention by the front door, and he nodded at our approach.

“Good afternoon, constable,” said Holmes. “Inspector Gregson is expecting us. May we go through?”

The constable nodded again in confirmation.

“Yes, indeed. Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson. Go straight on into the main hall. Inspector Gregson should be waiting for you there -- or in one of the side rooms.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson.”

Together we walked into the hall, which was remarkably bright and spacious, with tall oak doors to either side of us and a closed set of double doors straight ahead, next to the staircase. Gregson was nowhere to be seen. Holmes stepped up to the near left-side door, twisted the handle and peered inside the room.

“The dining room,” said he. “Empty.”

The nearest right-side door led us into the main sitting-room, where we immediately saw our friend seated upon a piano stool and talking in earnest with a young woman who was surely the lady of the house. Both looked up upon our entrance.

“Ah, gentlemen,” said Inspector Gregson, rising from his stool. “Mrs. Sessamy, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and his friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson.”

Mrs. Sessamy stood and accepted our greetings with courteous solemnity. She resumed her chair and regarded us closely.

“The house will be overrun with policemen before very long,” said she.

“Perhaps not,” replied Holmes, “for I am a Consulting Detective,” (and my friend placed an emphasis upon those latter two words) “and this gentleman is a Doctor, as the Inspector has mentioned. The events of these past days must surely have been a great trial to you.”

The lady nodded once, curtly. “Yes,” she said. “It has been very tiresome.”

“Tiresome!” exclaimed Holmes. “Hmm, yes, I appreciate how it must appear so. Might we ask a few questions? That is, if you are not too fatigued?”

“I do not care for your tone, Mr. Holmes,” said the lady, “but I shall try to answer your questions, if you would wish to put them to me.”

Mrs. Sessamy was a young woman, the same age as her husband, perhaps a year or two less. Her appearance was exquisite, doll-like; her complexion as the most delicate porcelain. But her grey eyes were heavy-lidded in dissatisfaction with their day; her lips were a harsh strike of tight crimson. It was clear that she did not relish such gross intrusion upon her privacy. I wondered, then, where her husband might be, and what sort of a fellow he was.

If Holmes's thoughts ran parallel to my own then he made no indication, for he was seated now beside her, motioning to me to take out my notebook and my pencil. Gregson resumed his perch upon the piano stool, and we directed our attention toward the lady.

“What was the nature of the party, Mrs. Sessamy?” Holmes asked, gently.

She gave a short laugh.

“Oh, would you believe, it was to celebrate the installation of the new Billiards table? Ninny – that is my husband, Mr. Holmes – was so proud of it, and he was so eager to play a few frames with his friends. So I organised a lovely party, with dinner and drinks and some piano music, and everyone came, and we were all having such a nice time.”

“How often do you entertain?”

“At least once a month,” said she, relaxing a little, reclining back in her seat, smoothing down her dress sleeves and lace cuffs. “After all, what is a house like this for, if not to enjoy it with good company?”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “And now if you would tell us, please, in your own time, your account of that evening. Anything unusual that you may have seen or have heard, and most importantly, everything that took place after the party split into its smaller groups.”

Mrs. Sessamy sighed. “I have told this several times already, but oh yes then, very well. There was nothing unusual about our party. We had known most of our guests for years. Everyone proceeded to arrive at around 7 o'clock. We had cocktails here. Dinner was served in the dining room at 8 o'clock. By 9.30pm we were quite through, and all the ladies, myself included, retired here for Ada's recital at the piano. Ninny and the others went to the Billiards table, and poor Lucius, Harold and Roderick headed for the second sitting-room to play cards. It could not have been more than 30 minutes later that Mildred found she had mislaid her purse and went looking for Harold. She came running back to us very shortly, and then it all becomes rather a blur to me, Mr. Holmes. I cannot recall very much after that.”

“Did you see or hear anyone out in the hall, while you were all present in the sitting-room?” asked Holmes.

“No,” said she, “for the door was closed, and the piano quite loud.”

“And the butler did not use the hall?”

The lady shook her head. “No. Turner passed between here and the Billiards room by that door there.” She pointed to a closed door at the far side of the room. “We have a drinks bar in that room, so there would have been no cause for him to leave, and indeed he did not, for the connecting door was open and he was in sight of at least a few of us the entire time.”

“Very well,” said Holmes. “So, the lady Mildred came running back to, where – here?”

“Yes. And then we called through to Ninny, and he came through with the boys, and then we all began to search.”

“And who was the first out of the main door into the garden?” asked Holmes.

Mrs. Sessamy paused. She placed her hand to her forehead and frowned. She looked up. “I cannot remember,” she said. “There were so many of us all around. The door was closed, and then it was wide open, that is all I recall.”

“But it was not you who unlocked or opened the main door?” Holmes persisted.

The lady bowed her head. “I cannot remember,” she whispered. “It is still such a blur. I am sorry.”

Holmes exhaled sharply in frustration.

“What other doors lead outside?” he asked.

“The only other door is from the kitchen,” Mrs. Sessamy replied. “It leads to the rear garden. But Ethel our cook swears upon her life that no-one passed through.”

“Were all the windows closed and secured from the inside?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I believe so.”

“You _believe_ so?”

Mrs. Sessamy began to look a little flustered. “The ground floor windows, certainly, for the weather has been so cold. But perhaps one or two of the first floor windows were ajar, to air the bedrooms that we do not use so very often.”

“So you searched the house for how long before you made any enquiries further afield?”

“We searched everywhere -- the house and the gardens and our neighbours' lawns -- for quite 30 minutes, and we were calling out all the while in case they were in hiding and just playing a silly trick on us. When we could not find them, then Joel and Gideon took poor Mildred, Phoebe and Ada home, and --”

“Wait,” interrupted Holmes. “Mildred and the two other ladies are the partners of the missing gentlemen?”

“Yes. They were taken home, and then everyone else left, too. We felt that we could do nothing further until the next morning, when Ninny said that perhaps we should visit Harold, Roderick and Lucius's homes. Their families all told us that they had not returned from the previous evening. And that was when I insisted that we contact the police, Mr. Holmes.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sessamy,” said Holmes. He touched her hand lightly. “You have been most helpful. We shall very likely need to speak with you again, but with your permission may we take a look around the house? And might I enquire as to if your husband is at home?”

The lady nodded. “You have permission to go where you please, but do not disturb anything if you can help it, for I cannot abide a mess. Ninny is in his study, I believe.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes.

We left the sitting-room and shut the door quietly behind us.

“So, what do you think of it all, Mr. Holmes?” asked Inspector Gregson, rubbing his hands. “A pretty little puzzle, is it not?”

“I will think nothing until I have taken my look around and spoken to the husband and the staff,” said Holmes. “For all we know, those three fellows might simply have swallowed too much wine, tripped out of the house on a drunken spree and ended up in someone's garden pond, or on a train to Scotland. I have barely enough useful information at present.”

“Very well, then, you go and have your walkabout,” said Gregson. “I'll wager you'll find the master of the house a curious sort. But be sure to come and find me when you are done. I have a spare copy of the guests' witness statements, and no doubt you'll want it.”

Holmes took my elbow and led me down the hall, where the second door upon the right-side opened in to the games room. The full-sized Billiards table took pride of place in the very centre. To one side was the drinks bar, as Mrs. Sessamy had described, and the door connecting us through to the main sitting-room. At the opposite side was a set of double windows overlooking the rear garden. A great many colourful paintings and tapestries decorated the panelled walls.

“This is an exceptional house,” I said, impressed by its splendour of décor.

“Yes,” said Holmes, “isn't it just.” He stepped up to the Billiards table and examined it closely. “It is new,” he confirmed. “The baize is only very slightly marked with chalk, and not remotely worn.” He looked about him for a moment, then walked forward to the windows to peer outside. He rattled at the latches. Then, moving to each wall in turn he began to carry out a rapid succession of taps. Finally, he turned back to me. “Let us move on, Watson.”

We reinvestigated the dining room: a narrow stretch of a room, beautifully furnished nonetheless with a dark mahogany table and 14 chairs, and tall sash windows facing out onto the property's front. A connecting door upon the opposite side took us through to the kitchen, presently empty, although parcels of fresh fruit and vegetables lay atop several of the work surfaces in anticipation of the evening meal. A small pantry stood adjacent, and beyond that, the door leading to the rear garden.

Holmes walked around, opening tall cupboards and craning inside them, and stepping out briefly to examine the ground at the back of the house. He worked in absolute silence, and I followed behind as faithful companion in the event I might yet be required. Holmes presently re-entered from the garden, placing something small inside his pocket as he did so. He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“You have found something?” I enquired.

“Perhaps,” said he, non-committally.

From the double doors at the end of the main hall, Holmes and I passed through to the Sessamys' second, smaller sitting-room. The fire was unlit; the room was frigidly cold. Several overstuffed sofas and a square baized card table and chairs furnished the room, still pleasant enough despite the white mist of our breath.

“My word,” said Holmes, “it feels as though this place has not been warmed in days.” He strode over to the hearth, and leaning in, looked up into the space. “It does not appear to be blocked,” he said. He lit a small lamp nearby and raised it inside for better illumination. He withdrew and replaced the lamp upon the table.

“Good afternoon.”

We both jumped in startlement at the voice which seemed to come from an adjoining cubby.

“I must assume you are the two gentlemen of whom that Inspector fellow made mention this morning?” it continued.

And we waited as, with a fine sense of dramatic pause, the voice emerged from the arched doorway in its gloriously physical manifestation.


	3. An Appropriate Interlude

We were confronted by a tall, slender man: black-suited, dark-hair slicked back with brilliantine, and wearing a pair of round wire-framed spectacles which he removed now and placed in his top pocket. He smiled at us in a benevolent manner, and held out his right hand in greeting.

“Good afternoon,” my friend replied evenly. “I must beg your pardon, I did not realise that the room was occupied. Mr. Ninian Sessamy? I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson.”

We shook hands with the gentleman, who had stepped into the main room from his small study and was now clapping his own shoulders and frowning.

“I am pleased to meet you,” said he. “Yes, now that you come to mention it, it is very cold indeed in here. I do not notice the cold when I am engrossed upon my work, you see, and I have been very busy all the morning. I shall have the fire lit directly.”

“Do not worry on our account,” said Holmes, “for we shall be moving around, and not in the one spot. I understand this to be the room where the three gentlemen reported missing were to have played their game of cards?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Sessamy. “Such a strange affair; completely inexplicable. I am still of the mind that it might be their idea of a practical joke, and that they will turn up today or tomorrow as if nothing untoward had happened at all.”

“That would indeed be the favourable outcome,” said Holmes. “Were they of that nature?”

“They were always full of mischief, yes,” replied Sessamy. “Rascals, the lot of them. We used to have such fun.”

“And these are the cards that would have been used?” asked Holmes. He pointed to a deck upon the baize. “They were not in the middle of a hand, at any rate. I assume that nothing has been touched here?”

“I have not touched a thing,” said Sessamy, with a note of indignation.

“Watson,” said Holmes, “would you mind going to find the good Inspector and obtaining from him that document he mentioned, while I continue speaking with Mr. Sessamy here? Thank you.”

I left the room a little dejectedly, I must admit, for I was now becoming much interested in what secrets, if any, the card table might have to reveal to my friend. I trailed back to the hall and spied Gregson outside of the open main door, standing and smoking a cigarette. We engaged in idle conversation.

“I expect you want that paper,” said he. “How is Mr. Holmes faring?”

“Well enough, I believe,” I said, smiling. “You know that he says very little while he is on a trail.”

Gregson chuckled. “Aye, I know, that is his nature.”

The Inspector took an envelope from his pocket, and handed it to me.

“There you are now,” he said, “freshly typed from the Yard. There is nothing very revealing though, I am afraid. Or at least, not so it would seem.”

“You mentioned earlier that Sessamy was a curious sort,” I said, remembering. “What did you mean by that, Gregson? He seems perfectly civilised.”

Gregson chuckled. “Well, it is nothing so very much. Did you notice the fellow's right hand?”

“I...” I thought back, and then recalled something from when I had greeted the gentleman. “Oh. He was wearing a tight-fitting flesh-coloured glove?”

“Yes,” said Gregson, “and only on that hand, too. Now, that's curious, wouldn't you say?”

“Well --”

I broke off from my thought, distracted at Holmes's sudden reappearance from the hall's double doors. He spotted us immediately, and charged towards me.

“Watson!” said he, “What are you doing, standing there smoking? Where is that paper?”

“Sorry, Holmes, here it is,” I apologised, handing him the envelope. “I was just saying to Gregson that --”

“Yes, I am sure that you were,” replied Holmes, spinning around. “Do come on, my boy, we still have work to do here. And of course, the cook has gone home with a headache, and the butler is shopping for curtains, or some other such nonsense. No matter; we shall return tomorrow to interview them. There is usually also a maid, but she only works in the mornings, and she lives with her mother a little distance away, and was not present that evening. Anyway. Upstairs we must go.” And he took the stairs two at a time.

“What did Sessamy have to say?” I enquired, as we arrived at the landing.

“His story corroborates that of his wife's,” said Holmes, sounding slightly dispirited. “He is an interesting character, all the same. A little over-fond of Scotch whisky; I found several bottles in the strangest of places. I predict that he will be an alcoholic by 30.”

“And what of the fireplace?” I insisted, as we entered the first bedroom.

“Too narrow for an adult to climb up, if that is what you were wondering, Watson. The soot has not been dislodged. There are no secret panels or trapdoors. My knuckles are quite raw from rapping.”

“How extraordinary,” I said. “Holmes, I say, did you notice Sessamy's right hand? Gregson said --”

“Gregson thought it suspicious, I presume.” Holmes turned around from the bedroom window, and raised an eyebrow. “The fellow wears a glove on that hand to conceal an old injury, Watson. He is missing his right forefinger and thumb.”

“I see,” I said, suddenly very sorry for the man. “That is a terrible misfortune for one so young.”

“I should call it terrible at any age,” Holmes replied. “Next room, Watson.”

There were four bedrooms, one of which occupied the attic and belonged to Turner the butler. The two spare rooms were quite small and sparsely furnished. We looked around the smaller of the two; Holmes unlocked the room's old and tarnished wardrobe, and peered inside.

“My goodness,” said he, half-shutting the door again, before re-opening and taking a closer look.

“What is it?”

“Paintings. Nudes. Women.”

“Really?” I moved to look over his shoulder. “Good gracious, Holmes.”

“Stacked up against the inside of the wardrobe. I am not the least bit surprised. Watson, look at _that_ one.”

“I am not certain that I want to,” I replied. “Do you suppose that Sessamy painted them?”

Holmes chuckled. “No, the artist is not Sessamy. My _word, this_ one is horrific. Do they really grow that large?”

He stood and backed away, firmly shutting the wardrobe door.

“That was an unexpected pleasure,” he said, wincing, “from which I fear my eyes may never recover. What a formidable collection. Come on, John, we are almost through here for today.”

“Do you think that Mrs. Sessamy is aware of their existence?” I asked, glancing back over my shoulder at the old wardrobe, which gazed innocently forward.

“I should think so. Whoever placed them there has not gone to very great pains to conceal them, as the key is in the lock, after all.”

The remainder of our upper floor enquiry passed without further incident. We stumbled across no drunken, confused bachelors in search of an available exit, nor any legitimate clues as to where they might have ended up. Holmes and I descended to the hall and spoke with Gregson, who was, rather amusingly, still a little peevish at having been abandoned so abruptly.

“Gregson, I shall return tomorrow to speak with the two staff,” said Holmes. “In the meantime, I shall make careful study of this document which you so kindly provided, and see what little sense might be gleaned from it.”

“Very well, Mr. Holmes,” the Inspector replied. “I did tell you that it was a knotty problem. I shall inform Mr. & Mrs. Sessamy of your intent, then. Good afternoon.”

We stepped out into the garden. Holmes strode a quick circuit of the grounds, paying close attention to the soft soil of the flowerbeds beneath the windows. He returned back to me at the gate, and we walked down the lane to find a hansom.

“Did you really find nothing of interest?” I asked my friend.

“There are several points which warrant a closer look, yes,” he replied. “Not least this.” And from his pocket he removed the small object from the garden, and held it out on his palm.

“A spring,” I said, puzzled. “You found it on the rear lawn?”

“Yes. Quite a few feet away, closer to the neighbouring wall. I am a little surprised that Gregson and his men did not find it before me. Still, finder's keepers.”

“Where could it have come from?” I wondered aloud. “Do you suppose that the three fellows made it out into the garden and across into the neighbour's land, and it was dropped by one of them en route? But why on earth should they be carrying a spring in the first place?”

“You know, what interests me almost as much right now,” my friend said, “is quite why this property assumes the rather fanciful name of 'The Four Treetops', when there is not a solitary tree to be found here.”

“I noticed one or two stumps,” I said.

“Yes,” replied Holmes, “what a shame.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back within the cosy warmth of our sitting-room, I threw my hat and coat upon their hook, and glanced through the assortment of midday mail delivered in our absence. There was a thin envelope addressed to Holmes, which I set out to one side.

“And I _still_ forgot to ask Gregson about Victor,” I exclaimed to the sideboard. “Memory like a sieve,” I added.

“What are you wittering on about, my boy?” asked Holmes. He picked up the envelope. “Hello, what's this? Oh dear, I think I know.” He tore it open and scanned over the rectangular card within. “Ha! It is our wedding invitation from Mycroft and Miss. Sophronia. I thought as much.”

He handed it to me. I inspected the gold embossed lettering with interest, then drew breath sharply.

“It is next week! And out of town!”

“Mycroft has the most wonderful sense of timing,” Holmes said, dryly. “That will be two days out of my schedule. I do hope that this Treetops case is concluded by then. And I hope, even more vehemently, that I am not expected to provide a speech at this abominable celebration. That is what brothers usually do, is it not?”

“Generally, yes,” I said, smiling. “But perhaps, in your case, Mycroft will not request it.”

“Now what is _that_ supposed to mean?” asked my friend indignantly. “Not that I want to, anyway, but _really_...”

I took hold of his arms which were starting to flail in their pique, and pinned them down at his sides. I leaned in and butted his nose, kissed his mouth, nipped at his jaw. He immediately withheld his protest to exhale a jagged breath against my cheek.

“John,” he began.

“We shall shop for an appropriate gift later this week,” I murmured against his throat. “Do not worry.”

“I am not worried,” said he. “I was rather wondering if we might have an interlude?”

I pulled back to look at him, standing there tousled and flushed. “Now? You do not want to write notes, or sit and think and smoke three of your foul pipes?”

“No,” he said. “I want _you_. Damn it, John, don't tell me now that you are not in the mood?”

I started to laugh, gently. “I'll show you just how very much in the mood I am,” I told him. I slipped the tight knot of his bow tie between my finger and thumb and tugged him back in to me. I rubbed my rough cheek across his skin, pressing my lips to his neck as his hands careened down my back, kneading, tugging and insistent. A capricious desire which could still yet surprise me, as I could never be certain which of its two extremes he might show. Staggering backwards, sideways, we made it out of the door and up the stairs into our room. He flung me down upon the bed.

“I thought that I was the one to be showing you,” I laughed, fairly winded, as his fingers tore at my waistcoat buttons.

“Can't waste time waiting for you to catch up,” he said, chuckling. “John, these _buttons_ , for heaven's sake, why do you persist in purchasing garments with so many of them, always?” He fell upon my skin at last; his tongue roving, tickling a trail to my throat and then my lips where he kissed me deeply. I could barely catch up with my breath to return his embrace, for now I wanted him so badly, and we surely must have resembled an inelegant, tumbling knot as we wrestled with each other's confounded clothing. He launched into my lap at last; barely prepared, he pushed himself on to me, whimpering softly from the pleasure, ache, relieved need to be penetrated. And we rocked together, slowly, until he became too much impatient; and then we loved each other rapidly, desperately, quietly up to the end when he bit out a helpless high moan, shuddering tight around me as I released into him, gasping.

We drew gradually apart, spread out upon our backs with shoulders touching.

“You are an animal,” I told him, only half in jest. “My waistcoat!”

Holmes nudged me. “It is entirely all your fault,” he said, “for being so delectable. My word, I needed that.” He laughed. “I used to be embarrassed to admit it, do you remember?”

“I remember,” I replied, turning to kiss him. He was reaching for his shirt. “You are dressing already?”

He turned midway through the process of locating an armhole. “I have work to do,” he said, slowly, as though his actions should not have to be explained at all.

“You could not wait longer than 10 seconds?”

My voice betrayed my hurt. Holmes abandoned his shirt, twisted and rolled over me, supporting himself upon his elbows and gazing down into my face.

“I am sorry,” said he. He seemed confused by my reaction. “Did you want to talk some more?”

“No, it is all right,” I said, caressing his face. “It would be unwise for us to lay around like this for very much longer in any case. Go on, get dressed, my love.”

He kissed me tentatively. I drew him in for a few longer seconds, reluctant yet to relinquish this beautifully chaotic intimacy.

“Now I had better read the contents of Gregson's envelope,” said he, finally, dragging himself from the bed. “And smoke those three foul pipes while I do so.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What do the witness statements have to say for themselves?” I asked my friend one hour later, when he had cast the papers to one side, drawn his legs up to his chin and lit his favourite clay to ruminate.

He looked up with a half-smile. “Very much what our dear friends the Sessamys have already informed us. Everyone present in either of the two rooms, with it all degenerating into an intoxicated jumble of confusion during the search itself. I should like to speak personally with one or two of these people, however. I think, perhaps, the fellow Gideon, and the friend Joel, and Miss. Mildred, of course. I shall visit them tomorrow, after we have spoken with the butler and the cook.”

“So what did you speak of with Sessamy, after I left the two of you alone?”

“A little of his family business – which is how he acquired his unfortunate injury, Watson – and of the history of his property. I also examined the room in closer detail, as well as the small study, which is really rather charming, despite its size; it has an ornate floor embossing which Sessamy informed me was designed by one of his artist chums. The master bedroom has a somewhat similar pattern, if you might recall. Hmm, I wonder if that would be the same fellow who painted those pictures we found in the wardrobe? And _then_ I found his secret cache of whisky, and poor Sessamy was ashamed and cut our conversation rather short.”

Holmes chuckled in recollection of it, and stretched his arms above his head.

“Do you believe those three gentlemen are really playing an elaborate trick?” I asked.

Holmes looked at me, suddenly serious.

“I think that we might find out the greater truth of it tomorrow,” he replied.

Then he resumed his pipe and contemplation, and not one further word upon the matter could I coax out of him that day.


	4. Insultin' Detective

By nine o'clock the following morning, Holmes and I had returned to Lower Boldingthorpe Lane and were admitted entrance by the maid: a tremulous slip of a girl who was much awed by my friend's authoritative manner. We were shown into the sitting-room, for it was still early and our hosts were elsewhere within the house.

I had not slept well, my head filled with what I supposed Holmes would call the flotsam and jetsam; so many disparate musings and trepidations. I thought of Mycroft and his country wedding, and found myself ever more fascinated for further detail of it. The invitation card had been the solitary messenger since his fleeting visit to our rooms little more than a week ago. For my part, I have always enjoyed these joyful events, so it was not without acknowledging a small, twinging sadness of my own that I turned my mind to our plans for those one or two days. Holmes, naturally, had left any organisation of it to me, which included procuring a wedding gift – whatever on earth I might conceive that to be, for the gentleman who has everything and his inscrutable bride.

I was perhaps not immediately alert, then, when Ninian Sessamy joined us in the room after a moderate interval.

“So, you are back already,” said he, with a faint smile. “Is it to speak with our dear Ethel and Turner?”

“To begin with, yes,” Holmes replied. “I have several further questions to put to you, however, if I may. Whatever happened to the trees that used to flourish in your garden?”

Sessamy looked puzzled. “Well... we had them felled, Mr. Holmes, due to heart rot. They were perhaps a little too close to the house in any case. You know what tree roots are capable of with foundations.” And he shrugged. “Is it of any importance?”

“Mere curiosity,” said Holmes. “Where is your good lady wife this morning?”

“Winnie is visiting a friend,” replied Sessamy. “Our neighbour next door, with that peculiar lawn ornament. The poor woman is mourning the death of her little dog. Winnie has such a nurturing side to her, she cannot bear to see anyone grieve.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “We shall speak with Turner the butler first, then, with your kind permission.”

Out in the hall, my friend turned to me.

“Ninny and Winnie,” said he, shaking his head. “I suppose if they should have a son then they might do well to name him Vinnie, if only to complete the triangle.”

We found Turner in the dining room with a silver-cloth, buffing up a small shelf of candelabra. A serious, reserved fellow of approximate middle-age, he answered Holmes's enquiries politely enough, although he could tell us nothing new. He had neither seen nor heard anything unusual, and upon joining with the search, had kept to the upper floors which had been similarly unproductive. No, he could not tell us if the downstairs main door was locked. Yes, admittedly, every one of the guests was merry with wine and spirit, but not intolerably so. Yes, he had worked with Ethel Adams the cook these past three years, and he was sure that her word could be trusted. The garden? Well, a lot of those rude policemen had been tramping about over it, but why should those three gentlemen climb over a high wall when they might as easily pass through the gate? That being, of course, that they even ventured outside, sir. I don't know what else to tell you, sir.

“Well, that told us precious little,” said Holmes with a sigh, as we departed the dining room some ten minutes later. “It is quite imperative that we discover if the front door was unlocked at the start of the search. From the witness statements, several guests specifically mention not venturing outside, so that may discount them. And neither of the Sessamys can recall it. So many loose threads, Watson! Now to the kitchen.”

“Holmes, you are limping,” I exclaimed, noticing only that instant. “Did you twist your ankle in the garden?”

He looked at me sharply.

“No,” he replied. Then: “Kitchen. Now.”

Ethel Adams the cook was an amiable tor of a woman. What she might have lacked in height, she made up for in girth, and her face flushed quite admirably from the excitement of meeting “A real Insultin' Detective!”.

“ _Consulting_ Detective, Miss. Ethel,” Holmes corrected her, mildly. “Now please tell us everything you can recall of that evening, if you would be so kind.”

Miss. Ethel perched herself upon a kitchen stool next to a large bowl of green vegetables. She beamed from one to the other of us and then began her recount.

“I never saw nothing,” said she. “I was in here all the while.”

Holmes blinked. “Did you happen to meet or speak with _any_ of the guests at any point?”

“Well aye, of course, when I was helping Turner serve up the dinner, but then it was only “Thank you,” and “More of this, please,” and “No, none of that,”, like they always do. Then after the last course was finished with, I collected the dishes and brought them through here, and set about washing them all up. I never saw them playing their pianos or their table games. And none of 'em came into my kitchen, either. The doors squeak, I should have heard it.”

Holmes nodded. “And what happened when you heard the commotion out in the hall, at the beginning of the search?”

Miss. Ethel's bottom lip protruded. “I poked my head out, just for a second, and then left them to it. At first I thought that they was playing a game of Hide and Seek. I didn't pay it any particular mind.”

“You really heard nothing, from the moment you retrieved the dishes into the kitchen up to the second that everyone assembled in the hall?”

“No,” said she. “Well, apart from the thunderstorm.”

Holmes raised both of his eyebrows. “The thunderstorm?”

Miss. Ethel nodded. “Aye, it were only a short one, a few loud rumbles. I looked out of the window to see if it were rainin', but no.”

“Exactly when did you hear the thunder rumble?” my friend asked, leaning forward in interest.

“I don't know, mayhaps quarter of an hour after I set to working on the dishes?”

“Thank you for your time, Miss. Ethel,” said Holmes, rising up from his stool. “I think that is all we need from you for now.”

We left the cook alone with her pea-pods, and returned to the hall. Holmes took my arm and steered me out of the front door.

“I wish to check something in the garden,” said he.

We walked around the lawn once more.

“Holmes, you _do_ have a slight limp,” I said.

He sighed. “Yes, well, what do you expect. Now, my dear fellow, stop pointing out the tiresomely obvious, and allow me to think for a minute here.” He stood in contemplation, looking up at the sky as if silently commanding it to reveal to him all of its secrets. “I must speak with Sessamy again,” he said after a short interval, and disappeared inside. I strolled to the gate and lit a cigarette. The air was cold, but the sky clear without that stinging wind so beloved of the month of January. I idled, my right boot shifting narrow ruts into the gravel. Something occurred to me suddenly. My brow creased into a frown. I spun around from the gate just as Holmes appeared in the open doorway. He joined me, picked the cigarette from my fingers and took a long drag of it.

“Sessamy has given me the address of his artist friend,” said he. “I am going to pay him a visit. I shall also call upon the three guests I mentioned before, in the hope that they might have something to add to their inadequate statements.”

“Do you wish me to come with you?”

Holmes shook his head. “It is not necessary,” he replied. “You might check in with Gregson and enquire as to how the Yard are progressing with their no doubt incompetent search of the area. I shall meet you back at 221B later.”

“Very well, then,” I said, and we went about our temporarily separate ways.

By happy chance, Gregson was in his office and attending to some paperwork. He was pleased enough to see me, and I sat myself down in the chair by his desk and looked curiously about.

“I don't believe that I have been in your office before, Gregson,” I said. “It is pleasant indeed.”

“Is it heck,” replied Gregson. “It is a dump, but I suppose that the pictures on the wall do brighten it up.” He looked at me. “Did Mr. Holmes send you for an update on the Sessamy case?”

I nodded. “He was eager to learn any news of your search.”

Gregson held his hands out before him. “There is no news. We have knocked upon the doors of the nearest and furthest neighbours, and no-one saw or heard anything unusual that evening -- or the ensuing days, either, for that matter. We have checked with the ticket master at the train station with a similar result. They have vanished, Doctor, and it is not looking very well for them, I must admit. And what of Mr. Holmes?”

I told Gregson of my friend's talk with the cook, and his small findings up to this moment. The Inspector huffed and shook his head.

“He is not doing so spectacularly either, then,” said he. “And he should not have taken that spring without telling us of it. I am getting it in the ear from those fellows' families, I can tell you, but all I am able to tell them is that we are doing the best that we can, given the circumstances.”

I finally remembered.

“How goes it with Victor?” I asked in the quietest tone I could manage. By fair luck we were quite well away from the main office bustle, with no-one within remote earshot.

Gregson looked at me, a little startled, I think. “How did you know about that?” he asked. “Ah, but why do I even bother asking. Mr. Holmes and his observant nature.” He leaned in towards me. “It is going extremely well,” he winked. “My goodness, yes, I could not be happier. Thank you for enquiring, Doctor.”

“That is excellent, Gregson, I am very happy for you,” I replied, smiling. I thought that to be the end of the subject – for I did not wish to be intrusive at all – but the Inspector leaned forward conspiratorially.

“A fantastic cock on him,” he whispered.

I believe I dropped my bowler in my fluster.

“Gregson, I do not need to know the details of --”

“Can keep it up for hours, too,” the Inspector continued, sotto voce. “ _Just_ what the Doctor ordered. Oh, not you, Doctor, sorry,” he added. “I was speaking metaphorically.”

“Well, that is most... useful,” I said desperately, scrabbling around beneath my chair for my lost hat.

Gregson chuckled, and leaned back in his chair.

“I am embarrassing you,” he said. “You always were a bashful one. I apologise. You need not worry, I shall not ask for reciprocal detail.” He chuckled again. “How is that odd brother of Mr. Holmes's getting along?”

And that opened up a whole avenue of alternate conversation, which kept us thoroughly entertained for a further half an hour. By the time that I arrived back at Baker Street it was the late morning. Holmes had not yet returned from his interviews, so I spent a very pleasant ten minutes inside Mrs. Hudson's steamingly warm kitchen, emerging from it the richer by a pot of tea and a plate of freshly baked fig biscuits. I had read The Times from cover to cover and had eaten all but one of the biscuits when Holmes charged into the room like a whirling dervish.

“Watson!” said he, emptying his pockets in a flurry upon the sideboard, and rushing forward to grab me by my shoulders. “Don't sit there stuffing biscuits, we must return to The Four Treetops, and I shall need you, my dear fellow.” He looked closer at the plate. “Fig biscuits. I like those.” He frowned. “Oh, Watson.”

“I am sorry, Holmes, but they were delicious,” I replied, wiping my lips. “Whatever has happened? It must be exceptional?”

He hoisted me to my feet. “Yes. I have been as blind as a beetle. Now grab your coat and your hat and let us go.”

Holmes had kept the hansom waiting for us at the kerb, and we sped back now towards Lower Boldingthorpe Lane. I updated him with Gregson's report, but he was agitated and restless in his seat, peering out at the noisy London whirr with a troubled brow.

“You must tell me a little of what is going on,” I said. “I take it that it cannot be good news?”

He took my hand and squeezed it briefly.

“First of all, I visited with the neighbour with whom Mrs. Sessamy is so friendly. She had an interesting snippet to tell me. And then I spoke with the friends Gideon and Joel,” said he. “The former is Sessamy's friend and stockbroker. He informed me that Sessamy is in the flush with no financial concerns. He had no very useful data. The fellow Joel is a manufacturing clerk, as timid as a mouse yet slightly more observant. He was one of the first to assemble in the main hall, and he did try the knob of the door. It was locked, Watson. Both confirmed to me that both hosts and all remaining guests were in one of the two rooms after the groups had split up. I visited Miss. Mildred -- whose nerves are still in tatters -- and she was unable to remember much apart from the fret of misplacing her purse, which of course she subsequently found.

“Finally, I paid call upon Sessamy's artist acquaintance, a gentleman by the name of Arbuckle. He is the fellow who painted those charming portraits that we found, Watson, as well as designing the floor decoration of several rooms in the house. He had very much more of interest to tell me, after a little, gentle persuasion. Did you happen to notice an elaborate background in one of the paintings? No? Well, I took mental note of it. Arbuckle advised me of a little detail which makes me fear for the worst. In addition, one of his human subjects is extremely pertinent to this enquiry.

“Lastly, Watson, I would draw your attention to the matter of the tree stumps, and the issue of the thunderstorm.”

I brought my hand down upon the leather of the seat with a loud retort.

“Yes!” I exclaimed. “That is the one thing I recalled when I was standing by the gate this morning, waiting for you to emerge. Holmes, there was no thunderstorm that evening! It was a beautifully still night.”

“Exactly,” said he, and he leaned back in his seat.


	5. Terrible and Ingenious

“So what is it that you are saying, Holmes? You believe the _cook_ to be guilty of whatever has occurred here?”

It was necessary for me to repeat this question to my friend as we alighted from the hansom. He was preoccupied with his thoughts now, and looked at me in some distraction.

“What? No, Watson, it is not the cook. She is an innocent party in all of this. We are undoubtedly too late to save those three fellows. But by Jove, what a clever thing it is.”

“I'm afraid that I don't understand,” I puffed, trying my best to keep up as we charged for the door. It was the butler Turner this time who admitted us entry. He drew back as Holmes swept by and away down the hall.

“Turner, where is your master?” Holmes called from over his shoulder.

“I believe that he is in his room, sir, dressing for a business engagement,” the man replied, a little dazed from our arrival.

Holmes strode into the second sitting-room, and spun around with arms extended.

“This _is_ where it happened, Watson,” said he. “Do you see? The right wall here adjoins with the games room, where Sessamy and his friends were playing their Billiards. The left wall is next to the kitchen, where Ethel the cook heard what she thought was a thunderstorm. And here, in the middle, are we. I am going to examine the right wall in closer detail.”

The right wall was festooned with landscape paintings and small tapestries. Holmes commenced to twist and flip them, to peer at the wall behind. One after another, to his increased dissatisfaction, until he came to one small portrait within the middle of a larger set. He shouted his triumph, then, twisting his head around to me.

“Watson! I have it! Look. A small peep-hole set into the wall that connects with the picture, and is all but invisible when viewed from this side. I imagine the other side is concealed with something similar. And see! On the opposite side there – a winged tabletop mirror – to reflect a wider section of the room.”

“Someone was spying on the fellows, then? But how on earth could they have orchestrated their disappearance from another location?” I admit that I was dumbfounded by this revelation.

Holmes moved into the middle of the room, his eyes casting around.

“By a small lever, or button, quite hidden – the operation of which would trigger a machinery. The machinery, Watson, which created the rumbling noise believed by the cook to be thunder. And which would quite feasibly have been drowned out on the other side by the sound of the piano, and the loud banter of the gentlemen at Billiards.”

“My god,” I said, stunned. “What type of evil contraption could this be? Are we in any danger standing here, Holmes?”

“I think not,” said he, “for other factors were involved. But there must surely be a matching lever or button in this room, too, for ease of use as much as anything. I think the device might not be in this room at all, but in _here_.” And he stepped into the small study.

“But what would they have been doing in the study?” I asked. “It is exceedingly cramped. If they were wanting to play cards then surely they would have been sitting at the table in this room?”

“Not if they had been encouraged to use the study, and given a good reason for doing so,” Holmes replied. 

He threw himself down upon his hands and knees, and ran his fingers rapidly along the rich pattern of the wooden floor. I watched in horrified fascination, half fearful that whatever device had trapped the unfortunate three might spring into action at this precise moment. A moment later, Holmes made a loud exclamation and pointed to a spot, wheeling his finger around him.

“Watson, look,” he said.

I could not immediately see anything; I knelt down beside my friend.

“The tiniest crevasse in the wood, Holmes,” I said, peering. “It appears to run around in a semi-circle close to the sides of the room, ending up at the far wall there.”

“It is a turntable,” said Holmes. “This is a room of two halves. On the other side of that wall is the opposite half of this room, where I believe we will find those three gentlemen. Assuming of course that they have not yet been removed, which I do not think possible due to the police presence here and increased neighbourhood vigilance.” 

“This is terrible and ingenious,” I said. “We must find that lever.”

“It will not be in here, for rather obvious reasons,” Holmes said, stepping out from the small study. Swiftly, he began testing the tolerance of anything remotely resembling a lever or button: the thin arm of a bookcase, or an unusual knot in a wood panel. Within a minute he had clasped a small metal lamp fitting, and with a series of clicks pulled it downwards. We held our breath as we heard the low scraping of gears, and to our fascination saw the study interior begin to shift. Its far wall began to turn, and with it all the furniture atop the turntable. Slowly, it rotated, and gradually the new room was revealed to us. The rumbling of the gears and the creaking of the springs did indeed sound as a low roll of thunder. And then the rotation ceased, and our eyes took in the scene before us.

At first it seemed that there were three large black stuffed sacks in the chairs; so contorted and twisted did they appear, slumped in position or hunched over the table. As we moved cautiously closer, the truth became clear: these were the bodies of the three missing gentlemen. 

“Don't touch the playing cards, John,” said Holmes. “I strongly suspect them to have been dusted with a particularly vicious poison. Take care that it has not drifted.”

I retracted my hand in haste and sombrely stepped around the bodies. I perfunctorily took their pulses, examined them, their twisted, agonised faces; they had been dead for some days. The cards scattered the surface of the table, two of the fellows still miraculously holding their hand: a frozen moment. A bottle of whisky stood at the centre, with three glasses around it only partially drained.

“Yes, they were indeed poisoned,” I said, softly. “Whatever is this all about?”

“We might best realise that by speaking with Sessamy,” he replied. “Be a good fellow and tell Turner to send for Inspector Gregson. Stress upon him the urgency. As quick as you can, now.”

I hurried from the room. The house was eerily quiet. After some little searching I found Turner in the kitchen with the cook. I relayed my message, and the fellow rushed to carry out his duty. After a moment spent reassuring Miss. Ethel that everything was well – although of course I was aware it was not – I returned to the study. Holmes was on his knees beside one of the bodies, examining the man's fingers with his magnifying lens. He stood up to move beside me, and laid a hand upon my shoulder.

“We must ensure that Sessamy does not leave the house for his appointment,” said he. “Would you mind going to fetch him from his room? Say nothing of what we have discovered; merely state that we require his presence in the second sitting-room.”

“If he has not already been alerted and fled,” I muttered, as I took to the stairs. But Sessamy was still in his room, sorting through a sheaf of papers from a small strongbox. He looked up in surprise as I entered directly after tapping.

“I say,” said he, “it is generally good manners for a fellow to wait to be admitted, rather than barging in headfirst. What do you want?”

I offered my garbled explanation.

“I trust that this will not take very long,” he said, as we rounded the hall banister. “I have an important meeting in town.”

As we approached the sitting-room doorway, I stood back to allow Sessamy entrance. He stopped short upon the threshold. Horror-stricken, he took one step back against me. I steered him gently but firmly inside. He wavered, his eyes wide, first upon Holmes standing by the study door, before flickering to the grisly scene within, and then returning to my friend.

“Oh my,” said he. “What is this?”

“I believe that you know very well what it is,” Holmes replied. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sessamy. Do sit down, please.”

The stunned gentleman took a further step back, but he did not get very far with it. He slumped into a chair, blinking from one to the other of us. His face was contorted with fear and despair. For a moment it seemed as though he would deny any knowledge of it, but then he crumbled and bowed his head into his hands.

“I had no choice,” he whined, piteously. “For they would have killed me first.”

“Stop,” said Holmes. “Do not say another word until Inspector Gregson has arrived. And do not even think of trying anything clever, for you would be sure to come off the worse for it.”

And so we waited in silence for thirty minutes or more, until we heard running footsteps in the hall. The Inspector appeared in the doorway, red-faced and puffing.

“I came as quickly as I could, Mr. Holmes,” panted Gregson. “Gracious me, what have we here, then?”

“We have three dead bodies, a rotating room, and one imminent confession,” Holmes replied. “Is that not so, Mr. Sessamy? Now, Gregson, if you would be kind enough to take that chair over there – yes, that one – and Watson, if you could take notes, please, thank you, then we shall all listen to what this gentleman has to say. Mr. Sessamy, may I warn you in advance that we require the absolute truth from you now, for if you utter one word of a lie, then upon my word, I shall know it.” 

Mr. Ninian Sessamy, having recovered his composure to a certain extent, glowered at my friend.

“I have no intention of lying,” said he. “Of course I shall tell you the truth, for there is no other way around it now, is there?” He sighed, and then continued.

“I did not build the turntable with the intention of planning a murder around it, let me first make that quite clear. I created it as an amusing folly after we had first bought the house, for as you know, I am an engineer by trade, and the concept of such a mechanism intrigued me. I did my research, constructed my gears and levers, replaced the flooring, inserted the inner wall, and thought it the most splendid thing altogether. Did you ever hear of the Roman Emperor Nero and his magnificent, rotating dining room? Yes, Mr. Holmes, I thought you might have. Well, that was my inspiration. And yes, I told a few friends about it, but none who were at my party that night. I rarely ever used the contraption, truth be told, and rarely thought about it until the occasion arose that it appeared it might come in useful.”

“Please do get to the point, Mr. Sessamy,” said Holmes, covering his eyes with one hand.

“I am doing my best. Well, it so happened that one day I was in casual conversation with Ada – Miss. Worth – who is – was, I should say – the lady of Lucius, one of _those_ fellows,” and here Sessamy pointed in the direction of the small study. “She was telling me of her money troubles; how she had so many bills for this and that, and no means to pay them, and however had she managed to get herself into such a fix. You know how women are. 'Why do you not ask Lucius to lend you a sum?' I asked her. 'Oh no, I could not do that,' said she, 'he is poor enough himself and I should not want to burden him'. Well, then, I had an idea, but a catastrophic one in hindsight. I suggested that she might make a tidy sum by posing for a portrait with Arbuckle, my artist pal. He paints standard portraits as well as the... more exotic, if you do understand my meaning. Naturally, the exotic portraits offer more money. To cut a long story short, Ada contacted my chum, and arranged a meeting. She ended up posing for him in one of his exotics, and made a very nice sum indeed from it. And that was the end of it, or so I thought. But then the silly goose loosened her tongue for whatever reason, and it all came out to Lucius, and he was so furious, and he threatened me. He might have strangled me then and there, but I somehow managed to calm him down. We held an uneasy truce until I heard a whisper that he and two of our mutual pals, Harold and Roddie, were plotting to do me great harm. In the name of honour, I suppose. Lord knows what they were planning to do with Arbuckle. But the whisperer told me that Lucius now owned a gun, and was planning to use it on me when he had the chance, and that Harold and Roddie would provide his alibi. 

“So I had to act fast, Mr. Holmes. It would have been no use appealing to the police, for they would have not done anything until I was already dead on the ground. These three demons pretended to have forgiven me, but oh, it was superficial mercy, you could tell that, for their eyes were full of hatred no matter how they tried to hide it. I wondered what on earth I could do. I was terrified out of my wits. And then I remembered that Arbuckle had brought back a great many curiosities from his travels in South America, where he had painted a number of his exotics. There was one curio of which he was very proud – a small bottle of a strange powder, encased in a sewn leather pouch. Inside the bottle he said there was a deadly poison – The Witches' Bulb – which was capable of causing almost instantaneous death upon contact with the skin. He had shown it to me on a previous occasion, and we had laughed about it together, and now I remembered it. So I paid him a visit on some pretext or other, then I excused myself from the room, crept to where he kept the pouch, and stole the bottle from within. He had no idea, Mr. Holmes.”

“Very likely he had not,” Holmes replied. “And then of course, you wished to test the authenticity of the poison, and that is how the poor little dog of your neighbour's met its end. Is that correct?”

Sessamy stared at my friend.

“Yes, that is right. I could not allow for any mistakes, so I waylaid the pup on one of its outdoor forays, and applied a light sprinkling of the powder to its skin. The effect was immediate. I greatly regretted having to do such a thing, but the end was quick, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes motioned for him to continue.

“So Winnie and I arranged our party, ostensibly to celebrate the arrival of the new Billiards table. I should say at this point that my wife knows nothing of this; she is quite innocent of any involvement. Well, the three fellows were invited, and they attended with their ladies. At the end of the dinner I quietly suggested that they might enjoy a good hand of cards, and that I would join them shortly after a swift game of Billiards. I proposed they use the table in my study, and take full advantage of the small whisky bar there. I had already set up the table with a bottle and glasses, and had set out a deck of cards which I had carefully dusted with the poison. I kept a close eye on their movement through the peep-hole in the games room. That was very easy – a crowd of merry fellows all gathered round the Billiards table, jostling and shouting at one another – I passed completely without notice, with my eye against a tapestry. If they ever looked my way then I suppose they imagined me to be enjoying a small detail.” Sessamy laughed bitterly at the recollection. “So then when the fellows had settled inside the cubby, handling the cards and feeling the first effects of the poison, I swiftly pressed the concealed button on my side, and the turntable set to motion. They were already paralysed from the ghastly stuff; they could not have darted away out of the room at that point. And the rest of it you already know, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes nodded. “That of course explains the frigidity of the room. It was vital to keep it excessively cold in order to preserve the bodies the better, while you figured out what could be done with them. At some point you noticed a small spring had detached from the mechanism, and this you picked up for safekeeping. Unfortunately, you then dropped it either mistakenly or deliberately by the wall in the garden.”

“So that's where it went,” said Sessamy. “Yes, you are correct. It must have fallen from my pocket when I took out my handkerchief.”

“And the turntable was constructed using the wood from the trees here?”

Sessamy nodded. “Yes. I was a little short of money at that time. We had only just moved into the house. I had my grand idea but very few materials. The trees were relatively small ones; it was scarcely noticeable for them to be removed and utilised for my needs. How did you guess that?”

“I never guess,” Holmes replied, bristling slightly. “You informed us that the trees were felled due to heart rot. Upon inspecting the stumps I observed that the disease was present only in two. Why fell a healthy tree if not for another purpose? Well now, Inspector, what do you think of it all?”

Gregson shook his head, and ran a broad hand through his hair. He stood and crossed to the study, stepping inside to examine the floor and the half-way wall. He eyed the tainted playing cards and whistled through his teeth in disbelief.

“What a business,” said he, “what a business indeed. Such a tragic waste of three young lives.”

“It would have been my life if I had stood by and done nothing,” replied Sessamy sullenly.

“That is no excuse to be going around and committing a triple murder, lad,” said Gregson. “Not to mention that poor pup you experimented on. Come on, then, up you get, I'll send for my men to take over from here, and then you can accompany me to the station.” He turned to Holmes. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, you have unravelled this case quite admirably. Although I am sure that the Yard would have gotten there sooner or later.”

“Quite possibly,” said Holmes, smiling tightly. “Thank you, Gregson. Come, Watson.”

“I feel very sorry for Mrs. Sessamy,” I said to my friend, as we walked back down the path to the front gate. “I do wonder if she had any suspicions as to what was going on.”

“She seemed quite oblivious to everything on the occasion that we spoke to her,” replied Holmes. “Her husband is a cool character, I will give him that. A pre-emptive strike, indeed. I am glad that the case is tied up, for now we have brother Mycroft to deal with, which is a far more foreboding prospect.”

“Yes, indeed we do,” I said, thoughtfully. “From one mystery straight into another, it would seem.”

“Into battle, then,” said my friend, and we set forth for a hansom.


	6. Coquetry and Cutlery

“I am afraid that we really must go shopping today, Holmes.”

I may have uttered a great many unfavourable sentences in my life, but this would certainly rank as one of the least regarded in my friend's eyes. He uttered a strangled noise halfway between spit and angry hiss, and bothered a number of the pages of the novel he was reading in the most agitated manner.

“I am quite serious,” I said. “We must purchase a wedding gift, and I shall need your assistance.”

It was three days since the conclusion of the Sessamy case. One day ago we had received a brief letter from Mycroft Holmes, which advised us of the location details, driving directions, expected arrival times and departures. Accommodation would be provided. Further information to follow. Yours sincerely. “How much further information is necessary, for heaven's sake?” Holmes had exclaimed irritably. “Is he planning for a military coup? And he _still_ does not make clear if he wishes me to babble a speech or not. Well I shall not. Unless he requests it very nicely.” My friend was notably reluctant to interfere in his elder brother's arrangements, for as he had said privately to me, Mycroft was relatively understanding enough to keep out of our own affairs, after the initial note-passing fiasco. “It is his life, John,” Holmes had said. “It is none of my business. It is not a case for me to investigate. I should trust his judgement to be sound enough so as not to require any input from me.” All the same we did wonder, with a great many amusing visualisations, on the tremulous delight that might be Miss. Sophronia Guillory.

Holmes turned another page of his book. “You could manage perfectly well without my assistance,” he said. “Buy them some cutlery, or an urn, or a... clockwork thing.”

“A clockwork thing?” I blinked. “This is a wedding gift, not a vulgar distraction for a six-year-old child.”

“Mycroft enjoys vulgar distractions,” Holmes replied. He snorted softly behind his book.

I ran my hand beneath the bedclothes and grabbed a handful of him. “You are not so averse to them yourself,” I chuckled. “But yours are of a different type, I'd warrant.” 

He wriggled as my hand tugged upwards on his nightshirt.

“What are you _doing_ , John?” He batted me away, smiling shyly, keeping hold of his novel. “What time is it?”

I glanced at my watch on the bedside table. 

“Seven. And you know very well what I am doing.”

I had managed to draw his nightshirt up to mid-thigh with a little difficulty, ensnared as it was between the blanket and his body. I roved his right leg, its soft bristle of hair, and gently stroked his inner thigh. Holmes had by now thrown his book to one side of the bed; was leaning back against the frame, looking down at me through heavy-lidded eyes.

“We don't have time for this,” said he.

“You always protest the time,” I murmured, stroking in ever higher rotations up his thigh. “It is fortunate that I find this particular coquetry of yours exceptionally arousing.”

“It is _not_ coquetry,” he protested, “I am simply-- oh--”

“Hmm?” I cradled him in my hand, tickling with my thumb. I could feel him pulsing, stiffening slowly. He shifted his position, reclining further on the mattress. He made a soft, pleasurable noise. “Good?” He nodded. I sat up in the bed and pulled the covers down and completely off us both. The room was cold; we shivered from the sudden exposure. With my left hand I renewed my efforts with the reluctant nightshirt. He lifted his hips to assist, and I finally succeeded in lifting it to his waist.

“Let me take that off you,” I whispered.

“But it's cold,” he grumbled, eyes tightly shut from my right hand's ministrations.

I leaned over him and breathed short, pacifying flurries of hot air across an expanse of goosebumped skin. He quivered, opened one eye and peered at me questioningly.

“What do you need?” he asked, as though I were an impatient customer at a grocer's or a client seeking his advice.

Holmes will persist in asking this question, and there are generally only two responses that I give: “Everything,” or “Whatever it is that _you_ need,”. This depends on several factors, but mostly how hungry I am for him at that precise moment. As of now, I am still half-asleep and quite content for the latter. I tell him so. He sighs.

“That is very ambiguous.”

I squeezed him the once more and let go. I discarded my own nightshirt, moved into closer proximity and pulled his shirt up and over his head. He emerged from the manoeuvre much dishevelled, which delighted me. I lay down upon him then, kissed his soft mouth, ran my fingers through his hair. And he submitted, and opened his legs for me; allowed me to rest between them, to press the closer to his sex. I rutted him, slowly, gently. He clasped me, kneading the muscles in my back, emitting soft, wordless moans.

“Tell me what you need,” I whispered, “otherwise I shall be reaching for the oil and you will have no say in the matter.”

He gasped a chuckle into my ear. “John, if you had been a straight man then I should have pitied your poor wife.”

“I am.. quite.. demanding. As you.. well know,” I told him, between small kisses to his throat. He said nothing, but undulated that beautiful body beneath me until I was driven half mad from wanting. 

“Just your fingers,” he stammered, finally, releasing hold of my back and pressing himself into the mattress. He grasped his prick with his right hand and began to stroke, hesitantly, staring wide-eyed up into my face. “Please,” he added, perhaps for fear that he had disappointed me by not submitting to full intercourse.

And so I applied oil to my fingers, and pressed them to him, one, two, “John...” – just two, then. The slickness of it – of us – our stifled sounds; him writhing beneath me, cyclically tightening and relaxing his inner muscles as I worked inside him. He was growing close, and fast, for his hips bucked, wanting more and faster, to lose his senses for precious seconds. And then he changed his mind, almost at the last, clawing at my shoulders:

“John, now... all of you, _now_.”

I withdrew my fingers, slicked them over my prick 'til it was adequately prepared, and then entered him, perhaps a little roughly from over-eagerness, for he yelped. I was close, too, barely time enough for five or six deep thrusts before I came to my longed-for glory, and he too to his: head thrown back, teeth clenched, with some obscene guttural noise that I very much hoped our landlady was too stone-deaf to hear, two floors below us. 

“Did I hurt you?” I asked him, anxious.

He shook his head, eyes closed, still in the grip of sweet aftershocks. After some short while he relaxed, lowered his legs, pushed lightly at me. I gently withdrew, and wiped us clean with a damp cloth from the basin.

“Thank you,” said he, now stretched out and limp.

“You are welcome. But do not think for a moment that this means you are excused from our shopping trip,” I said, mock-sternly.

He laughed, caught my arm and pulled me to him. And it was thus that we spent a few more minutes than we ought, doing a little more of nothing and a great deal of less particular.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As far as my beleaguered memory can relate, Holmes and I had never, up to this point in both our professional and personal relationship, shopped together for an item such as this. I might even go so far as to swear that we should never do so again, for my friend was the precise embodiment of a nightmare in attitude, selection and spirit. We trawled from one department store across to the next, examining gewgaws and vases, elaborate picture frames and teapot sets. I could pick up one object for Holmes to soundly reject it, and vice versa, for my friend had the strangest taste in potential gifts for his brother and bride-to-be.

“Holmes,” I said, eventually, after two sore hours of wearing down our boot leather, “you are driving me mad, my dear fellow.”

“As you are me,” he replied, his brows knit in a fury. “Everything you have picked out is a hideous abomination, which Mycroft would loathe and instantly dispose of via the nearest open window. Whereas I suggest quite lovely articles and you can only laugh at me.”

I shook my head. “A Red Indian headdress is _not_ an appropriate wedding gift. Neither was that wooden fertility statue, _nor_ the atrocious silver ashtray in the shape of a monkey skull. It would seem to me that you are intentionally trying to offend your brother.”

Holmes stalked ahead, arms tightly crossed in his annoyance.

“At the very least they would have been _interesting_ gifts,” said he, from over his left shoulder. “The ashtray doubled as a nut-cracker,” he added, “which I suppose you omitted to notice.”

Carriages rattled past; passers-by jostled between us so that I was in some immediate danger of losing sight of my friend altogether. I caught up with him and took his arm.

“Cutlery, then,” I said. “As per your first suggestion.”

He sniffed. “If you had agreed to that at the start, it might have saved us these two hours of merry hell.”

At Wissell's department store we agreed, at long last, upon a very fine set of solid silver cutlery, elegantly wrought with subtle swirling upon the stems and handles. Resting inside a plush red velvet lined leather case, and appropriately gift-wrapped for good measure, we stepped back out onto the street in great relief and lightened mood.

“Lunch,” Holmes declared. “To save what might be left of my poor sanity, and to rescue you from your perpetually rumbling stomach. To Simpson's, Watson. Lead the way.”

We found ourselves a discreet corner table at our favourite restaurant in the Strand, and sat back to observe the contented buzz of our fellow patrons. The day's Special was a roast beef carvery which I ordered for us both, with a half bottle of Bordeaux. Holmes tended to eat sparely during the day, but I think even his nostrils twitched at the deliciously aromatic dishes which passed us by en route to other tables. And now, as I caressed his right knuckle with my little finger, I thought I might bring up the burning topic once more.

“Remind me as to the details of the wedding,” I said. Then: “Where did you hide Mycroft's letter? I could not find it this morning.”

Holmes sighed. “It is here,” he said, tapping at his inside pocket. He pulled it out, unfolded it and smoothed its creases upon the tablecloth. He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Pay attention.”

I might have bristled and retorted that I should not dream of doing anything else, yet my friend was already proceeding to re-decipher the content aloud.

“The wedding reception is to be held at The Golden Gander Hotel, Thale, in Surrey. We are expected to arrive early upon the Saturday morning – no later than 10 o'clock – with the wedding to take place at the local parish at midday. The wedding breakfast will be at the hotel upon return, with an evening reception and overnight stay, with accommodation pre-arranged. Departure at our discretion upon the Sunday morning.”

“That sounds pleasant enough,” I said. “I have never visited Thale. Have you?”

“No,” said he, “I have not. I am not looking forward to this in the slightest, Watson. You know very well how much I abhor parties.” My friend dealt the last word a vitriolic curl of his tongue.

I shrugged. “I do know, but I fear that on this occasion it is inevitable. I imagine we shall be able to escape for a greater part of the afternoon. It will be all right.” I smiled at him. “It is a pity that there will be no other members of your family in attendance.”

“Had they been living then I suspect that they might have been,” said he, shortly. 

Despite my soundest efforts I had not yet been successful in my quest to encourage Holmes to reveal a little of his family history. Of his parents I knew the scantest detail; of possible aunts, uncles, cousins, I knew not even if they had existed at all. Non-existent, passed away, only he and his brother Mycroft remaining. I did find it poignant when placed alongside my own dearth of surviving kin in England.

Our luncheon arrived, and we were thus occupied for an enjoyable hour. I made sure to slide an extra slice of roast beef onto my friend's plate; he in turn fidgeted with his vegetables and worried at his bread roll and butter. The wine was quite excellent; we left but a drop of it. The dining room was loud and bustling by the time that we stood up to leave, Holmes insisting on paying for the both of us.

Back at 221B, he made for his desk, taking paper and pen and commencing to write.

“I am replying to Mycroft,” he said, in a resigned tone. “We shall arrive at blah, attend at blah-blah, and leave at blah-blah-blah.” He began to scribble.

I chuckled fondly. “And I had better arrange with Mrs. Hudson for our best morning coats to be cleaned.”

I crossed over to where he was bent over his paper, pen scratching at great speed. I kissed the top of his head.

“It will be all right,” I repeated.

And perhaps it would be.


	7. I Do Not Care for Weddings

We spent a quiet week prior to that fateful Saturday. On the Tuesday, Holmes accepted a small case which called upon his considerable knowledge of bicycle tyre treads, yet such was its simplicity that it was concluded by the next day. He brooded, then; tucking himself by the fire and scarcely moving until I dragged him away on Friday. His contemplation may have been due in small part to the lack of further communication from Mycroft. I felt it graceless, yet Holmes explained that this was merely his brother's nature, and I should know it well enough by now. At any rate, by Friday afternoon I had our smartened morning coats laid out in addition to our evening dress, and had set to packing up our cases.

“At this point, you might wish to help,” I told my friend as he sprawled out on one side of our bed, propped up on one elbow, regarding me with some amusement. “Or do you plan on falling asleep there?”

He smiled, and reached out to riffle through a pile of the shirts that I had drawn.

“However many of these are you intending to pack?” he asked. “It is one day and a night, not an entire week, my dear boy.”

“There are mine, and yours, and a different set for evening wear, and two spare sets in case of spills.”

“You are so well organised,” said he. “I suppose I could prepare our wash-bags.” He raised himself up and began rummaging through drawers. From the corner of my eye I saw him place a rectangular brown-paper package inside his own case.

“What is that?” I pointed.

“Biscuits,” he replied quickly. “In case the food is wretched,” he added, in answer to my quizzical expression.

Holmes was rather more a hindrance than a help, but within an hour we had between us somehow managed to pack and strap two suitcases, and re-consulted our trusty Bradshaw for the precise time of the morning train. My friend's mood was vague and distracted; my own oddly undefinable. A low-lying, dreading tension without knowing the why, and with absolutely no idea as to the who or the what.

I very much hoped that it would not snow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Our train was slightly delayed upon the Saturday morning. However, a pale sun shone apologetically through a thin sheet of white cloud, and as we stepped down onto the platform at Thale a little after nine-thirty, we took a moment to breathe in a few lungfuls of crisp air.

“What a beautiful morning,” I said. 

“We may as well walk to the hotel,” said Holmes. “I estimate that it should take us no more than twenty minutes, and I do feel the need to stretch my legs. Your suitcase is not too heavy, Watson?”

“It is fine. Let us go, then.”

We made our way onto the most picturesque, leafy lane that wound around in an approximately forward fashion, ultimately leading – by my friend's calculations – to the Golden Gander Hotel. A small variety of carriages passed us by, and from a field beyond the tall hedgerows to our left we could hear the loud barking of a sheepdog; otherwise we were alone and quite at peace.

“Where can all the other guests be, I do wonder?” I looked behind, and then craned my neck to peer around the corner of the lane we were approaching. “How many people did Mycroft invite, after all?”

“I do not know. But they all very likely arrived by eight-thirty so as not to incur his incalculable wrath,” Holmes replied. “Whereas we, beyond any shadow of a doubt, are going to get it in the neck.”

I burst into laughter. Holmes wrapped an arm around my waist for a moment, and inclined his head to mine.

“Let's kick up our heels a bit,” said he, “this walk appears to be a longer one than I had anticipated.”

We did pick up our speed, but nonetheless with thanks to the twists and turns of the lane, we did not come within sight of the hotel until quite ten minutes after ten.

“My word, is that the place? It is magnificent, Holmes.”

It truly was a splendid property, standing within its own vastly lush, rolling acres of gardens and terraces. To one side we could espy a golf course and tennis courts, and to the other, a stunning area of parkland with decorative ponds, exotic topiary and a small waterfall. The hotel itself was a tall ivy-covered red brick palace, with large bay windows, and small turrets at every corner.

“Mycroft never does things by half,” remarked my friend. “It is almost a castle. Hurry now, we are late.”

The walk up to the large double-arched doors of the Golden Gander took us five minutes more. We were now able to see the evidence of much flurry and activity within the great entrance hall and lounges: thirty guests or more already in their wedding finery, talking and laughing in groups of twos, fours and sixes. Of Mycroft Holmes there was no sign, as we stepped up to the desk to announce our arrival to the charming young receptionist. 

“Mr. Holmes has been asking after you, sir,” said the smiling girl to my friend. “He was most anxious when you did not arrive by nine o'clock. I will send the bellboy now to find him for you, and then to attend to your luggage. Welcome to the Golden Gander!”

I stared glumly at our room keys. “It looks as though we are on opposite sides of the hotel, Holmes,” I said. 

“I quite expected that,” said he, casting about him at the surrounding merry melee. “We could hardly be placed in a double room together. Surrey is not that avante garde.”

“On different floors.”

“Well now,” said Holmes, his expression aflame, “that is another thing altogether.”

He snatched both keys and marched back to the reception desk, whereupon he leaned forward to engage with the girl in a cosy consultation. I saw her smile brightly, nod and hasten to consult her guest book. My friend was evidently using his considerable powers of persuasion, for there was much talk and paper shuffling. But within a minute he was returning to me in triumph with a new key, which he handed across with great ceremony.

“Watson, by some extraordinary miracle we now appear to have adjoining rooms. I fear that I am currently suffering from a persistently curious medical complaint, and you are my concerned and most attentive private doctor who simply _cannot_ be too far from me, let alone on another floor.”

I chuckled. “I accept my new position with pride, my dear fellow. We had best not speak of this to Mycroft.”

“Let us be quiet, then, for here he comes now.”

I glanced up to the top of the grand central staircase, and saw a familiar rotund figure making haste down towards us. Impeccably dressed, as Mycroft Holmes invariably was, with the most colourful waistcoat, pearl coloured gloves and a white bloom bursting forth from his lapel, his face however appeared incandescent with rage. I all but flinched as he strode rapidly towards us, flapping his arms at his younger brother.

“You are _finally_ here,” he boomed, all fire and brimstone. “What in the name of heaven could have delayed you so, Sherlock? The time! The time! It is almost half past ten. It is too much.”

“Mycroft, if you flap any more then you will be in danger of taking off,” said my friend calmly. “We are here. No search party required. You have gained four pounds since I last saw you, I think.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” snapped Mycroft Holmes. “It is this confounded shirt and waistcoat. I do hope that you will be tolerable today, Sherlock.” He looked across to me, then. “Good morning, Doctor. I am happy to see you.”

We shook hands. “I trust that everything is proceeding smoothly, Mycroft,” I said. “Might we be of any assistance?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, no, all is as it should be. But you had best hurry up to your rooms and prepare. Do _not_ wander off into the grounds, Sherlock. And do _not_ offend anyone here inside the hotel. Not that there will be any _time_ for you to do so, your having arrived here so _late_.”

“It is good to see you too, brother,” replied Holmes, with dry amusement. “Who is your best man? And however many people are here? It is like a circus.”

“You know, I would have asked you,” said Mycroft, seeming to me a little abashed now, “but I could hardly be sure of you attending at all, and I am certain that you would have declined in any case. Potters, my partner at the Diogenes, was keen and so he has the onerous task. A great many of the guests are Sophronia's dear family and friends. I invited a number of my acquaintances from the Diogenes but, well, you know how they are.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “And it is why they are members of the Diogenes. Where is the dear lady? We are both very anxious to meet her.”

Mycroft waved in the direction of the staircase. “Sophronia's mother informs me that she is preparing her dress, or her veil, or her train. Very likely all three. Naturally, she will not be socialising until after the event. Sherlock, I really must leave you now, we shall speak again very shortly.”

“He is in a state,” my friend remarked, as Mycroft disappeared back up the stairs. “And I have been roundly scolded. I must remember to make another comment about his weight a little later this afternoon.”

I took hold of his arm and began to lead him away. “I would really rather that you didn't,” I said. “Come, the bellboy has already taken up our bags, we had best catch up with him.”

The rooms, which were well situated on the second floor, were pleasant indeed: large and richly furnished, decorated in soothing, restful colours, with windows looking out across the golf course. I was delighted to find a luxurious and adjacent private bath. The bellboy had already deposited our cases within our respective quarters; now he stood and waited politely for a tip. I handed him some coins, and he bowed and exited. Holmes came through to join me immediately via our connecting door. He sat down in one of the chairs and lit a cigarette. He smoked for a minute without speaking, as I set about unpacking my belongings. I turned around eventually to find him regarding me seriously, the ash on his cigarette a long, precarious stem.

“What is the matter?” I asked. “You look very grave.” I felt a little of the same myself, although I did not wish to voice it. 

“I do not care for weddings,” said he, with an effort. He seemed to be struggling to find the preferred words, which I found odd and which concerned me also, for his face had taken on the most melancholy expression. He sat forward in his chair. “And yet, at the same time, I do. I hope you understand what I mean, John. It hurts.”

I knew what he meant, then. My god, I did know. It felt very real, the two of us here in this room, the celebrations around us, the forthcoming union: all of these things which could never be ours in their truest sense. We could never be acknowledged in this way. Could never speak of our devotion, could never touch or show our affection in public, or risk terrible scandal. We had forfeited our right to the melding of family, of children, an heir – and willingly, never let it be said otherwise; but sometimes these scars would reopen and smart, and they did so at this moment. I did not take my friend's statement to mean that he was wistful for a family, but in my own case the pain was very real. My paternal feelings had never been quite quashed, despite the obvious hopelessness.

I had to comfort him. I squeezed in alongside on his chair, and put my arms around him. I had to voice it now.

“I do know what you mean,” I said. “I would marry you tomorrow, if it were possible.”

He huffed a sad laugh and leaned into me.

“I surprise myself,” said he, “that I should care so very much all of a sudden.”

A sharp knock at the door took us out of our contemplation. Another rap a second later, and a rattle at the handle. I glanced at Holmes; he nodded that I should answer it. I stepped over, turned the key and opened it a little way. 

Mycroft Holmes's highly polished shoe insinuated itself inside the crack.

“I would wish to come in,” he said.

I pulled the door wide and motioned that he might do so. He shut the door with a sharp click. He looked from one to the other of us – for Holmes had not moved from his chair by the window.

“What do you mean by this?” he asked, finally. 

“What do we mean by what?” said Holmes. He lit another cigarette and propped his chin up with one hand, elbow resting upon the left arm of his chair.

“You know very well what,” said Mycroft. “You have somehow managed to arrange adjoining rooms, which was _not_ as I approved. I would ask that you change back immediately.”

Holmes stared coolly at his brother. “Why?” he asked.

Mycroft flushed pink. “You know very well why,” said he.

“Mycroft, I am afraid that you make the most wretched conversationalist,” said my friend, smiling thinly. “What objection could you possibly have to the Doctor and myself having rooms next to each other?”

“Sherlock, do _not_ play games with me, and please do as I ask. Do not ruin the day.”

“You had us placed at remote corners of the hotel, on separate floors. Forgive me, Mycroft, if I find that to be objectionable. Please note that we do indeed still have two rooms, not just the one. Furthermore, I hereby _solemnly_ promise to bite into a pillow if the good Doctor pillages me _too_ vigorously tonight, so that we might not alarm our neighbours.”

“Holmes...” I began, agonised, but my friend had become white-faced and taut in quiet rage and focused quite entirely upon his brother.

Mycroft slammed his hand down upon the dressing table.

“I regret that I ever allowed this to happen,” said he, indicating the two of us, barely containing his feeling. “I regret being so soft in my deeds and kind words, for this has surely corrupted you, Sherlock. Your filthy tongue – how dare you utter such things to me? Will you be parading yourselves, then, in front of my guests, embarrassing them with your show? Do as you wish, then, I wash my hands of you.” He retreated abruptly, looking at the neither of us, banging the door closed.

The room utterly silent, I looked to my friend whose head was bowed so that I could not see his face.

“Holmes,” I said, softly, “my dear fellow, that was... that was inexcusable.” I sat down upon the edge of the bed amongst my half-unpacked shirts and socks. I stared at the rug. “The two of you behave so awfully to one another,” I said. “And yet neither of you mean all those things that you say, with your ridiculous quarrels. What can be done now? You must apologise.”

“I shall not,” said Holmes, his chin now in the air, face pale but set. “John, I shall not,” he repeated, quietly.

“If you do not, then I fear that you may have lost your brother for good,” I said.

“Then so be it,” said my friend. “I have lost him.” And rising from his chair, he strode across the room to wrench the door almost from its hinges, before disappearing down the landing hallway leaving me sitting on the bed, still, dumbfounded and aghast.


	8. You'll Catch Your Death of Cold

I sat there for a further one or two minutes more, believing that Holmes might reappear, or that even Mycroft might return in regret. Alas, the neither of them did. I looked around at my disarrayed suitcase, at the beautifully wrapped gift box of cutlery, and I picked it up. I fingered the label, to read the inscription:

_To Mycroft and Sophronia Holmes,  
With fondest wishes for a happy future together,  
From your brother Sherlock and Dr. John Watson._

With a deep sigh I stood and tucked the box under my arm. I thought I should take a trip downstairs and deposit the gift with reception, with the possibility of encountering my friend or his brother en route. The second floor landing was deserted but for one dark-suited gentleman sitting in one of the annexes and reading a newspaper. He raised his head warily to eye me as I passed by. As I descended to the first, a bustle of guests emerged as a swarm from one of the rooms and chattered their way down to the hall. At the far end of the landing I could see an open arch door leading into a small turret library. Intrigued, I made an exploratory detour; perhaps Holmes had claimed it already for a few minutes of solace.

The room, as is often the way with turrets, was entirely circular with bookshelves from the floor to the ceiling, and great windows which faced out to the front, with wide cushioned ledges where omnivorous readers might rest. My friend was not there, but a young woman turned with a start as I stepped into the room. She was seated on one of the ledges, swaddled in a warm blanket; perhaps she was unwell.

“I do apologise for disturbing you,” I said, regretful. “It was not my intention. I was looking for my friend, but he appears not to be here after all.”

“Oh, that is quite all right,” said she. “For you are far politer than the last gentleman who burst in here, just a minute ago. He saw me and made the most terrible grunt before turning on his heel and stamping off down the stairs.”

I winced. “That very likely was my friend,” I said. “He had a terrible argument with his brother, and now I have no idea where he might have vanished off to.”

The young lady appeared concerned. “I am very sorry to hear that,” she said. “This is not the day to be having an argument of any kind at all.”

“Indeed it is not,” I agreed. “Are you a wedding guest too, Miss?”

She shook her head, smiling. “No, I am not. I am just sitting in here for a while, away from the madness, and trying to keep warm. It is so cold!” She laughed. “Would you like to stay for a minute and talk with me? We might see your friend from the window.”

It sounded a grand idea: a moment's distraction away from the dark storm cloud. I took a seat to one side of the lady, and together we gazed out at the gardens.

“This is an exceptionally beautiful hotel,” I said in admiration. “I have still scarcely looked around a fraction of it. I should have loved to explore the gardens a little, but I suppose I shall not have the opportunity now.”

“Why is that?” she asked, drawing her blanket the tighter around her, shivering.

“Once I have found my friend it will be his decision as to whether we stay or we should leave,” I replied, sadly. “If he does not apologise to his brother then there is nothing for it but we must depart. He is so strong-willed and obstinate.”

“Surely you should not leave on that account,” said she. “The hotel is quite large enough to avoid another confrontation or disagreement, and it would be such a shame for you to miss the celebrations.”

“The brother is the groom,” I confessed. “So perhaps now you can see why.”

The lady's eyes grew very wide. “Oh, good gracious, yes, now I think that I do.” She looked at me. “Why does your friend quarrel so with his brother?”

“To a great extent I believe it is sibling rivalry,” I replied honestly. “They are so very alike in so many ways intellectually, but emotionally they are at great odds, and this is where the friction lies, I am afraid. My friend believes passionately in one thing, and his brother cannot see eye to eye with it, and so they fight.” I shook my head. “I am certain that beneath it all they love one another dearly, but over the years such small resentments build up and construct so many impregnable walls, is it not so?” 

My new friend nodded, a sympathetic expression upon her sweet face.

“Yes,” said she, “that is so very true. And families can often appear to be very strange animals from the outside, with their particular eccentricities and rituals and beliefs.”

“But I am not on the outside,” I said, rubbing at my chin and leaning back against the cold window frame. “I am very much on the inside, and I see all that goes on, and I wish so very much it could be otherwise. I am afraid that this last argument might be the end of their relationship.”

The lady leaned towards me, concerned by my sombre words.

“You must not say that,” said she, and patted my arm. “Whatever could be so terrible that it might tear the two of them apart?” She paused. “Does your friend object to his brother's match?”

I shook my head again. “No, it is not that at all. It is... personal,” I finished, a little weakly. “A private matter,” I added, smiling gently at her.

She regarded me closely. “It will be all right,” she said, finally. “I am sure of it. Family bonds can withstand heavy weight, and if, as you say, they do love one another, then they will see this trouble through somehow. You must trust in your friend's strength to make his apology, and in his brother for the strength of forgiveness. And of course, vice versa,” she added, wisely.

I was touched by her kindness, was about to thank her and enquire as to her name when an older lady appeared in the doorway.

“My darling, what are you doing there?” cried the old woman, “You will catch your death of cold. Come back, now, come back, the room is ready for you now.”

“I must go,” the lass whispered to me, rising up from her ledge, her blanket still clasped around her. “Stay well, and be comforted, and go and search for your friend.”

“I will,” I said. “Thank you so much for our talk, and for listening.”

She smiled the once more then was gone, leaving me to gaze out through the cold pane of glass at the late morning grey.

Downstairs in the hall a long minute later, I remembered to place our gift with the desk for safekeeping. The lounges were still thrumming with activity. Although I felt it scarcely probable that Holmes would be amongst it all I did, nevertheless, make a quick circuit. I failed to recognise any faces upon my route, but blinked in mild surprise at two further dark-suited, severe gentlemen seated by the doors of both the lounges, as though in waiting for a guest or protecting one already present.

I left the crowd behind me and walked out into the grounds. The grass was wet; I kept to the path and worked my way out towards the parkland. Green lawns gave way to trees and ponds, bushes and small hedge mazes, exquisitely presented. I kept an eye out for my friend, but could see no sign of him at all. I detoured upon a rough trail walk quite surrounded by tall trees and partly shut off from the natural light. I emerged at the far side of the small waterfall we had spied from the lane. And there, at last, I saw Holmes; standing quietly to one side with his back to me, seemingly fascinated by the white spray of the water. I made my way across to him; the sound was such that he did not hear my approach.

“Holmes,” I said, when I was close enough to touch.

He spun around sharply. “John,” said he. “What are you doing here?”

“I think the question should rather be, what are _you_ doing here?” I replied. “The bank is muddy, you might have fallen in.”

“I would not be so careless,” he snapped. Then: “It is peaceful here, do you not think so?”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed, “but I was worried, after you left our room so abruptly.” I looked around again, cautious, but there was no-one, so I linked my arm with his. “How are you?” I asked softly.

He looked at me, made as if to bluster, I think, but then thought twice of it. 

“I have been better,” he said.

“Have you seen Mycroft?”

“No.”

I sighed. “Mycroft did not mean those things he said,” I told him. “You know how his nerves are jangled today. I think that you terrified him with that dreadful line about the pillow.”

Holmes let out a sharp laugh despite himself.

“Yes,” said he. “In hindsight, I should not have said that. Even less the fact I play the woman. He must be disgusted with me now.”

“You do not 'play the woman',” I admonished, dismayed. “Don't talk like that. Wherever did you hear such a frightful phrase?”

“But it is true, nonetheless,” said he. “And Mycroft is horrified. Very likely he had never thought of my preferences in any detail up until that point. I suppose he imagined we might kiss and caress and that to be the end of it. That is how odd he is, Watson. And now he has been smacked in the face with what I do. With what _we_ do. I very much regret saying it. In his own naïve way he was merely trying to protect all our reputations by placing our rooms a distance apart. You are aware who occupies the other room next to yours, I suppose?”

“No,” I said, “of course not. I have no idea. Who?”

“The Prime Minister, Robert Cecil. I recognised one of his officials outside the door.”

“My goodness,” I said, stunned. “I do hope that neither of them heard the nature of our row.”

Holmes shook his head. “I think it extremely unlikely. Our voices were not raised. The most noise we made was upon leaving the room, and which I believe rather startled the poor fellow there out on the landing.”

“Will you apologise to Mycroft?” I asked.

He pulled away from me then and took off on a slow circuit around the waterfall. He picked yet another cigarette from his case and lit it. I followed, just slightly behind. After a moment he turned around in reply.

“In Mycroft's eyes, I am corrupted. I am filthy. I am an embarrassment. Those were his very words. But I am none of those things, John. How can I apologise for being something I am not?”

“He did not mean those words, my love,” I said, troubled, for now I saw how deeply he had been affected by the argument. “They were said in the heat of the moment. He is likely as distraught about the matter as you are. At the very least you must find him and talk with him.”

“Not now,” said my friend. “There is no time for it. He is about to get married. I would be very much in his way.”

I looked desperately at my pocket watch. It was after eleven. The groom would be setting off for the church by the half-past strike. 

“Will you attend the wedding?” I asked, feeling so terribly for him.

“No,” said he. “I cannot.” 

And I knew I should not be able to change his mind.

Now I found myself shivering violently, for I had foolishly come outside without my coat. The winter chill bit through my clothes and numbed my feet as we stood still. Holmes saw that I was cold and put his arm around me.

“You are chilled,” he said. “Let us walk a little to warm ourselves up.”

We headed for the tree trail and its subdued half light. Not a soul did we see anywhere, it was so remote from the central hubbub. Holmes slowed and stepped up to a nearby tree, ran his hand across the bark and turned around to lean his back against it. He threw his cigarette stub upon the earth and trod it in. He looked at me as if in question. I moved to him.

“I am even colder now,” I said with a wry half-chuckle.

He pulled me close, kissed my face, my mouth, raked and tugged at my hair. His tongue insisted; I allowed it in, sucked on it, tickled at it with my own. He tasted richly of tobacco. We ravished each other's mouths for as long as we were able to sustain a breath. We pressed against each other. We might have gone further had it not been such a deuced risk, for we were both feeling very reckless in those moments, I think. But as it was we drew apart, our lips red only from our embrace, and stepped back onto the empty trail.

“That was madness,” said he.

“It was rebellion,” I corrected him. “I think we did it rather well.” Then, serious: “What do you wish to do now? Return to London?”

Holmes sighed and motioned that we should continue walking.

“No,” he said. “I shall --” but he hesitated. He thrust his hands into his pockets, shut his eyes and leaned his head back, as if remonstrating silently with the sky. After a minute he looked at me again. Then: “Oh damn it, John, come on, or we shall be late for this bloody wedding.” 

And he broke into a sprint, back down the trail to the hotel, and it was all that I could do to keep pace with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time that we had brushed ourselves down, re-polished our shoes, pulled on gloves and top hats, the last of the guests had departed on foot – for the parish was but a few minutes walk. I straightened my tie and smoothed down my hair.

“Ready?” I asked my friend.

“I suppose as I shall ever be,” said he.

We descended to the hall and made our way outside once more. A smart one horse carriage was waiting patiently outside.

“That must be for the bride,” I said. 

We had walked quite halfway down the path when we heard the rattling carriage behind us at fast approach. We stood to one side to allow it passage.

As it did so I looked up and through the side window at the occupant within. The lady lifted her veil for a second and peeped back at us.

“My goodness,” I said, in astonishment. 

The carriage rolled on, and we hastened after it.


	9. Wedding Breakfast

“Holmes,” I said. “The young lady...”

We were marching briskly down the lane, the church in sight already with the carriage drawn up outside.

My friend glanced at me. “What about her? She was wearing a veil.”

“Yes, but she raised it for a moment as the carriage passed us by. I recognised her. I met her a little earlier this morning. She said some very kind words to me.”

“Regarding?” Holmes's tone was sharp. “Watson, I trust that you did not reveal any detail of that unfortunate altercation with Mycroft?”

“No,” I said, quickly. “Well, a little,” I amended. “But not in detail,” I added. “I was not aware that it was Miss. Sophronia. She was wrapped in a blanket.”

Holmes blinked. I felt quite certain that he was about to bombard me with questions, and indeed would have done so had we not at that moment arrived at the entrance to the church. The bride was still ensconced within her carriage. We slipped in through the main doors as the organ music began; on time by a hair's breadth.

It is out of respect for the privacy of Mycroft Holmes and his bride that I choose not to reveal any great detail of the ceremony itself, save for the fact that the young lady, resplendent in white satin and lace, was escorted down the aisle by her father, with two bridesmaids behind and banked by many tens of smiling faces to either side. Solemn words were recited, repeated and sung. The ring was placed upon the bride's finger, and Mycroft, with an expression upon his face which I might almost believe to be a sincere affection, administered the most delicate of kisses to her outstretched hand. I glanced at my friend beside me who remained inscrutable and calm, but his fingers did subtly curl around mine, and we did very discreetly remain that way for the duration of the service, unobserved by other eyes; indeed, unnoticed by a single soul, save for any which might dubiously occupy one of the gaudy high plinth statues.

We emerged into the afternoon light, surrounded by so many unknown faces, jubilant and garrulous. We shook strangers' hands, enquired as to their well-being and how they came to know the bride, the groom, and how we hoped that we might speak with them a little later: to share a glass of Champagne, why yes, it would be a pleasure. We met the bride's mother, father, brother: faces, names, smiles, delighted introductions. After an interval, Mycroft and Sophronia Holmes stepped out to the loud tolling of church bells, and slowly walked the path down to their carriage. My friend exchanged a long look with his brother. Mycroft may have nodded, curtly. Then carriage doors were opened, closed, the horse led on, and we the crowd in our merry clamour followed an increasing distance behind.

I touched Holmes's arm.

“I am so very glad you changed your mind,” I whispered. “It was the most delightful service, was it not?”

He grunted softly in reply.

“Now we shall return to the hotel and you must --”

“Yes, yes,” snapped Holmes, “I know, Watson, I know. Don't carry on so.”

“But you should prepare the finer detail of what you might say...”

Holmes glared. “I was not aware that there should _be_ any finer detail,” he mimicked. “For it is all wrapped up in a _blanket_.”

By the time we had arrived back at the hotel, neither of us was speaking to the other. Holmes headed for the lounge where the bride was now officially receiving guests. She was indeed the young woman with whom I had conversed inside the turret library. Perhaps not quite yet five and twenty, her face, if not possessing conventional beauty, was amiable with a sweet purity of expression. Her figure was slender, her light brown hair long and shining, tied up in an elaborate arrangement beneath the knot of her turned veil. She looked up as we approached and broke into a brighter smile, holding her hands out to me.

“Doctor Watson,” said she, delighted, as I raised her small hand to kiss it. “See, I know who you are.”

“As now I you,” I replied, with a bow. “How mischievous of you not to reveal your identity!”

She laughed lightly. “I would have, but mother rushed me away before I was able, and I quite enjoyed our little rendezvous as it was.” She leaned in towards my ear. “Please be sure that your friend speaks with my husband.” She scrunched her shoulders up, then, and hummed a giggle. “That sounds so strange, it may take a while to get used to it.”

Moving on and away to the side to allow the next to take my place, I found myself pondering where Mycroft Holmes might have first encountered this extraordinary creature, and what first attracted one to the other, and how that great, solitary man had found it within himself to propose a lifelong union and be accepted. All of these things held me in the moment, and when I turned around I saw my friend intent in conversation with the new bride. As I have oft occasioned to mention, Holmes was capable of great charm with women whenever he so chose, and he extended it now with much attention to Sophronia Holmes, for her radiant smile was the brighter when he turned away to join me at the doorway. But his mouth turned down towards me; he was still sulking, revealing his pique once more this moment.

“Where is he?” he asked. 

I took this to mean Mycroft Holmes. 

“I do not know,” I said. “But it is indeed extremely irregular that he should not be present. He has left his wife very much alone.” I stepped out into the reception hall, leaving my friend to follow if he wished. He did so, catching me firmly by the elbow.

“Where are you going?” he demanded. “Damn it, John, this is difficult enough for me without you behaving like a bear.”

I shook my head. “Me, the bear? You must either find your brother now, or you shall have to wait until after the breakfast, because I see they are already setting out the dishes.”

And so they were. The great double doors to the dining room were pulled back, revealing lines of clothed tables covered with flowers, candles, glassware. Guests were already drifting through to stand in small circles and to admire the decoration. Waiters moved smoothly from table to table, rearranging details and straightening place cards. I looked around but I could not see Mycroft. I glanced back to my friend and was somewhat surprised to observe the back of him disappearing up the staircase to the landing. Huffing, I followed him back to our room. He had flung his top hat onto the bed and was stripping off his gloves. I shut the door.

“Afterwards, then,” I said. I moved to touch him, but he sidestepped.

“Don't,” said he, “I am out of sorts again.”

“You certainly are,” I agreed, sorrowfully. I too laid down my hat and gloves. “We should not quarrel as well,” I said. “I don't think I could bear it.”

Holmes sat down upon the bed and ran a hand nervously through his hair.

“I detest this,” he said, eventually, looking up at me. “I detest the way I behave, sometimes, and I detest how my brother behaves, most of the time, and I detest how you are dragged into the middle of it all, and how you have to suffer too.” 

“Well, you are my life partner,” I said softly, “and occasionally that is indeed the lot of a life partner, to be dragged unwittingly into the middle of things.” I moved across and smoothed his hair from where he had agitated it. “But it is all very worth it, and you know why. Now let us return downstairs and attend this breakfast, and then, Sherlock, please, my love, you will speak with your brother.”

He screwed up his eyes and smiled at me. 

“You rarely call me by that name,” said he. He stood. “Life partner,” he murmured, then, as though savouring the words.

“Breakfast,” I repeated, indicating that we should go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wedding breakfast was a pleasant affair. Holmes and I found ourselves seated together – to his marked relief – and to either side of us were entertaining, articulate friends of the bride's family. Mycroft Holmes did appear at the beginning after the most curious delay, and apart from a short toast to his new wife, and after a few words of her own, there were no speeches made. I confess to a small thrill as I espied the Prime Minister, Robert Cecil, seated at a far table. Had I been twenty years younger, then I suspect I would have waved.

“This is the greatest mystery of the century,” Holmes said to me beneath his breath, as we chinked our glasses of white Burgundy. “The lady Sophronia appears quite normal in every respect.”

“Well, what were you expecting?” I enquired, my eyebrows raised. “Eight tentacles and a waxed moustache?”

My friend tutted. “I just do not understand,” said he. “What could have drawn the two of them together?”

Of course, I had been wondering the same thing, and we had discussed this on many previous occasions. And now, having met the lady, we still found ourselves baffled.

I observed that Mycroft and my friend exchanged the occasional coded glance across the duration of the meal. Neither of them smiled or made any gesture save for a small nod or crooked eyebrow. It seemed an entire conversation was taking place between the two. At one point, Holmes sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“Mycroft will be coming to my room after the breakfast,” he said.

“When did he tell you that?” I asked.

Holmes shrugged. “Best that you occupy yourself elsewhere for the duration, Watson. Either stay in your own room or explore the hotel. I do not know what will be said between us; he is being very cryptic.”

“Very well,” I replied. “I shall rest in my room, then. I am feeling quite tired already. It has felt like a very long day, and yet it is barely half over.”

There was some small ceremony with the tiered wedding cake – “Fruit cake!” said Holmes, in quiet disgust – and then we all stood up to leave, with an announcement of the evening celebrations to begin at seven o'clock. I hoped we might be here for the event, as I found myself already fond of Sophronia Holmes and wished to talk with her a little more. As it was, I ensconced myself in my room as promised, and lay down upon the bed in an attempt to sleep. I heard Holmes shuffling around within his own quarters, and then a silence. Shortly thereafter, a rap upon his door which was swiftly answered. Forgive me, but I did rise from my rest, and I did take a chair close to the door that I might hear what was said. That is my unforgivable nature: the curse of curiosity. I leaned in and listened intently.

“Mycroft,” I heard my friend say, “sit down.”

There was a scraping of a chair and a few seconds' lull.

“Sherlock,” began his brother, “I believe that what I said earlier this morning might require some clarification.” A clearing of the throat. A silence. Mycroft continued: “I spoke in anger, and therefore perhaps my words were out of turn.”

“That would be an understatement,” replied my friend. I visualised his expression at that moment.

“They might not have been said at all if you had not provoked me with that vulgar outburst, Sherlock.”

“Yes.” A pause. “That was uncalled for, and I apologise.”

“Oh. Well, good. Thank you.”

“For being what I am, however, I offer no apology whatsoever. I feel no guilt or shame for what I do, and I refuse to be treated as though I were a lesser man because of it.”

Mycroft sighed heavily at this statement.

“Sherlock, you are over-dramatising, as usual. I placed your rooms apart from one another for subtlety's sake. And for this _heinous_ crime I am being subjected to your histrionics, which I am not at all convinced that I deserve. There are _important people_ here today, in case you had not noticed. Persons of bearing, for goodness sake. They might react unfavourably if they saw or... heard... anything of... that nature.”

“Mycroft,” said my friend, “have you ever known John and me to walk around, hand-in-hand, in full view of a crowd? Or to make booming proclamations of love within earshot of a roomful of people?” I heard him begin to pace the floor. “We are, by necessity, discreet, for the neither of us would wish to land up inside a prison cell, please believe me.” A second's pause. “But I am an embarrassment to you.”

“No, no, no.” Exasperated. “You are nothing of the sort. I am... extremely proud of you, Sherlock. Surely you must know that? If anything were to happen to you, or... John... then it would affect me very grievously. I take back all that I said, I hardly know what I was thinking. You are my brother. It seems that we frequently squabble for no very good reason at all, and it is a habit I rather wish we might grow out of. Particularly now that I am wedded with Sophronia.”

There was another silence during which I suspected that there was either no eye contact at all, or a positive surfeit of it. And then my friend spoke, softly, so that I could scarcely hear what was said:

“How did you come to make her your wife, Mycroft?”

“I do not think I understand your question, Sherlock. Why, how any man might meet a lady and over the course of time propose a marriage. You are inferring, I am sure, to the fact that I have always sworn away from attachments, much as you used to do yourself.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “I admit that I cannot see what you might have in common with each other.”

“Well, I should award you full marks for your astonishing lack of tact. Great heavens. Do you really wish to know?”

“I think that I do, yes.”

“Then I shall tell you. In the first place, before I ever met Sophronia: it was envy.”

“Envy? Of what?”

“Of you, Sherlock. Of the happiness that you had found with... John. I envied it. No, do not look at me like that, you foolish boy, it was not envy for wanting _him_ ; I am not that way inclined, you know that. It was the envy of your having someone fall in love with you, want to be with you, commit to you, and for that to be reciprocal. For us growing up as brothers, and so very alike in how we lived our lives, can you even begin to imagine how exceptionally isolated that made me feel?”

There was a long silence from my friend, and then again, a soft voice in reply:

“A feeling of envy is a very bad basis for proposing marriage, Mycroft.”

A loud tut from the elder brother. “ _No_. That was _then_. And then I met Sophronia, and I began to realise the possibility, of what could be, if I only let it. If I _allowed_ myself to... feel. Instead of disregarding the... softer passions... as inconsequential, somehow beneath me – as I had always done before. And she, in turn, in that angelic way she has, was sweet enough to find something in me that she might adore. Sherlock, I do love her, you know. You seem very sceptical as to my motive.”

“Perhaps I begin to understand, a little.”

“Well, a little is better than nothing. I am very anxious all the same, now, and I imagine that you should make fun of me for that.”

“I should not make fun, Mycroft.”

“Hum. I have reached this ripe age without... well, yes. And so I am anxious that... well, never mind.”

“I, too, knew nothing when I first came to be with John. Of course, he already knew a great deal and so could teach me, for which I am... extremely grateful.”

I heard the mischief in his voice, and felt my face burn a sudden scarlet. I fear that Mycroft took a similar reaction.

“Oh, Sherlock, you scoundrel, no further detail for pity's sake! Would you really wish to traumatise me again when I am on enough pins as it is.”

A moment of pause, and then two loud bursts of laughter from the room.

My cheeks still flamed, regardless.

A shuffle of a chair, a footstep, and then a fleeting muffled noise, a few softly spoken words which I could not determine. I darted away from my spot in case either one should swing open the adjoining door. A minute more and their conversation concluded, for I heard the other door click and then the turn of the knob to my side. Holmes entered and sat down beside me.

“You earwigged,” said he, accusingly. “You are blushing.”

I chuckled. “Yes, I am sorry. A little. Did it go well?”

“You apparently already know,” said my friend, only half amused. “Listening in is bad sport, John. Anyway, thank goodness the argument is over. I confess to being a little moved. Mycroft has never been so open with me before. In actual fact, this may have set a precedent. What a strange thing to bring us together again.” He lay back on the bed and extended a hand to stroke at the small of my back. “You must never reveal what you overheard; he would be horribly embarrassed.”

“Of course, I should never speak of it,” I said. “Why you should even think that I might...”

He squeezed my thigh. “You are the embodiment of discretion,” said he. “It is one of your finest qualities.”

“I do have others,” I said. I twisted around and lay down to join my friend in his recline. “But what you said about me! Really, Holmes...”

“Sleep with me tonight,” said he, suddenly, smoothing my brow with his thumb. 

“Out of respect for your brother's wishes, I think that we should not,” I replied, doubtfully.

He huffed. 

“The Prime Minister is next door,” I said, to stress my point.

“He is not allowed to join in,” said my friend. “We have to draw the line somewhere, John.”

(Holmes snorts like a bull when his ribs are tickled. See – I am not always as discreet as I might be.)

“We still have this evening to get through,” I told him as we calmed down, “and I am almost dead on my feet from tiredness, unless I manage to take a nap this very minute. So as much as I --” and here I broke off to yawn widely. “Oh dear,” I finished.

“Oh, yes, the evening festivities,” said Holmes, and he chuckled softly to himself.

I had absolutely no idea as to what he might have planned.


	10. Biscuits and Breasts

Our tentative plans to enjoy the hotel's superb facilities that afternoon were quite done for. My weariness had me sprawled out asleep on my bed within a very short while. I believe that Holmes took himself off to the turret library to peruse the collections. When he returned to begin preparations for the evening it was already five o'clock, and the world outside was black, cold and sleeting.

“Wake up, John,” said he, shaking me from my slumber. “You have been drowsing for hours.”

I drew a hot bath and lay luxuriating in the oil scented water. It was so comfortable I believe I might have drifted off yet again had my friend not come to see what I was about. He sat on the rim of the tub and eyed me.

“Behave,” I said.

He smirked. He idled his hand in the water, swirling figures of eight. 

“Let us catch the early train back tomorrow,” he said. “As idyllic as it is here, I would far rather be home at Baker Street.” He drew his hand out and shook off the drops. “I wonder how many urgent cases I have missed so far today.”

I laughed. “Very likely none,” I said. “Nor will there likely be any tomorrow, it being Sunday.”

He smiled, and stood. “Yes, at least Mycroft had the courtesy to marry at the weekend. They are honeymooning in Paris, John.”

“We shall go to Paris too, someday,” I said softly. “And not for casework,” I added.

“I shall hold you to that,” said he.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ballroom had been transformed upon our descending to the party at seven o'clock sharp. There were white flower decorations across every surface and strung on the walls, with grand arrangements of coloured silks and ribbons between tables laden with excellent food and wine. The atmosphere was most convivial. Sophronia's mother, Mrs. Eva Guillory was charming company as she regaled us with a few moments of the day: of how her hat had blown away with the wind and ended up upon a treetop where it still remained, almost as a Christmas fairy; how her husband, Henri, told a colourful joke that had made the Prime Minister stutter; how their son, Harland, Sophronia's elder brother, had spent the afternoon sitting in one of the golf course's bunkers, building a complex fort of sand with a group of his young cousins.

“Your family sounds lively, Mrs. Guillory,” I said to the lady, smiling.

She laughed. “Something is always happening to one of us,” said she. “Dear Mycroft is very amused by it.”

“I am quite sure that he is not,” whispered Holmes in my ear, as we circuited round to the drinks table. “I would put money on him being entirely fed up.”

With Champagne glasses in hand we made our way out to the covered terrace, where we leaned upon the rail and looked out on the illuminated gardens. Behind us the musicians began to play an unfamiliar yet rather lovely air. Surrounded by the other revellers I watched my friend, amused, as he examined and deduced their occupations and marital status from what seemed to me no data whatsoever.

“You cannot possibly tell that that fellow is a sommelier from the way he folds his arms, Holmes,” I said, incredulous.

“I can,” replied my friend. “Ask him, then.” He smiled at me mysteriously. “I also now know what Mr. Henri Guillory does for his living.”

“What does he do?” I asked, curious.

“He is the joint-owner of a most prestigious vineyard and Chateau in France.”

“Well, now,” I said, “then you must have spoken with him, or overheard it, for however could you have deduced such a thing?”

Holmes looked smug. “You have been paying poor attention to the wine bottles on all of the tables today, my dear Watson. If you had read the smaller text then you might have read the Guillory name and a small label with their history.”

“Goodness me,” I said, “no, I did not see that at all. A vineyard! So we have been drinking the family vintage today, how lovely. The family lives in France?”

“Part of it, at any rate,” said he. “I would think that Mr. Guillory runs his side of the operation from this country. I suspect he is well travelled. I say, there he is now, talking with Mycroft. I am going over, John, amuse yourself for ten minutes.”

And so saying, he hopped inside, leaving me standing in the chill. Thinking this is a poor idea by now, I followed his trail as far as the pianoforte where by happy chance I stumbled across a group of three, one being Sophronia Holmes.

“Doctor Watson,” said she, smiling and excusing herself from her cluster. “I am so happy that Mycroft and Sherlock are talking again. Did you have something to do with it? I am certain that you did. My husband will not say a word on the matter, but I know that he is relieved.” She led me to two chairs side by side, and we sat down. “Tell me a little about yourself,” she said with an encouraging smile.

“There is not much to say,” I replied, flattered by her attention, and then proceeding to tell her anyway. She listened attentively, asking questions at intervals, before nodding, her curiosity seemingly satisfied.

“Sherlock is talking very intently with my father,” she said, looking across to where my friend stood with his brother and Mr. Guillory. She turned her head back to me then. “I was so very sad to learn about Ulysses.”

“Who is Ulysses?” I asked, puzzled.

She looked taken aback. “Why, he...” then mentally back-tracked, shook her head and plucked at the hem of her glove.

“No matter,” said she, with a sudden bright smile. “Let me fetch you another glass of Champagne.”

She returned within a few moments, but my mind was fixed upon her strange statement.

“Can you not tell me?” I asked.

“Tell you what?” said she. Then: “Oh, please, do forget I mentioned it. Have you met Harland yet?”

“Yes, briefly, at the church,” I replied, thrown by the change of subject. “He is a most affable young gentleman. Your family produces wine, is that correct?”

She nodded. “Yes, we have a Chateau in France, which my uncles help run along with my father and Harland. It is how I first met Mycroft – for he is very keen on wine, as I am sure you know. He knew my father from their Bridge group, and they would spend long hours of an evening discussing vintages and regions. I am quite knowledgeable on our Chateau, and I am fond of Bridge as well, and so that is how we came to talk. Do you play Bridge, Doctor?”

“Badly,” I smiled. “I am rather better at Billiards.”

“That is a different thing altogether,” she laughed. 

We spoke then of concerts, our favourite composers and books, and a little more of her large family. Although young, Sophronia was well educated; she carried herself with such poise and restraint that I could quite appreciate how Mycroft should have been drawn toward her.

Holmes appeared at my elbow. He was carrying with him the brown-paper wrapped rectangular package that he had hidden inside his suitcase.

“You are both still chattering away,” said he, with a courteous nod to Sophronia. “I have been upstairs to collect this,” and here he lifted the package, “and now I find that Mycroft has disappeared again. I should place him on an elastic cord, if I were you,” he said to the bride.

She laughed. “I fully intend to,” said she.

A group of young ladies descended upon us then. With polite excuses we extricated ourselves and crossed over to the doorway.

“Did you enjoy your conversation with Mr. Guillory?” I enquired. “And what _is_ that you have there, Holmes? Is it really biscuits? There is enough food here for an army; you cannot possibly be so contrary as to open up your own refreshment...”

He chuckled. “No, Watson, it is not biscuits, I did mislead you there. Where is Mycroft? It is for him. Yes, Mr. Guillory is an interesting fellow. A good dancer too, apparently. Which reminds me – when _that_ nonsense starts up, we shall make a run for it. I do have my limits.”

We found Mycroft in the reception hall, eventually, standing by a potted tree and nibbling at a rich cream pastry. The noise had become too much for him also, to seek refuge somewhere calm. He looked up at our approach and waved the delicacy somewhat guiltily.

“It is my first,” said he. “So do not smirk at me like that, Sherlock. What do you have there in your hand?”

“Your wedding gift,” said my friend.

Mycroft was nonplussed. “But we have already received your gift – which is quite lovely, thank you both. There is something else?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. He offered it to his brother. Mycroft accepted it suspiciously.

“It is in brown paper,” said Mycroft, sounding offended. He unwrapped it slowly, as if there might be a bomb inside primed to go off. He drew out the object and gazed upon it.

“Sherlock,” said he, “what in god's name is it?”

It was, of course – it would have to be – the wooden fertility statue, some twelve inches in height, that we had chanced upon in the strange backstreet shop where Holmes and I had had one of our disagreements. He had returned to purchase it in my absence. I shook my head in despair.

“It is a symbol of good luck,” said my friend, all mischief and twinkle.

“Sherlock, it has... breasts,” said Mycroft, turning it this way and that. “And the face is extremely odd.”

“It is female,” explained Holmes.

“Yes, I can see that,” his brother replied. “My knowledge of anatomy is not as wanting as all that. Well, thank you.” He seemed not to know quite what he should do with it. For a moment I thought he might bury it in the plant pot the instant our backs were turned. Eventually indicating that he ought to deposit it safely in his room, Mycroft left us, tutting under his breath as he climbed the staircase.

“Watson, don't hit me,” said Holmes, chuckling. “I could not resist it.”

“What a perfectly dreadful gift,” I scolded him. “That is what you were cackling about earlier, I suppose. 'Biscuits' indeed. I think that Mycroft should rather have preferred biscuits!” And then I suddenly remembered what had been burning a hole in my brain for the past many minutes. “Holmes,” I said, cautiously, “who is Ulysses?”

My friend started, looked at me sharply, opened his mouth to speak and then shut it.

“Where did you hear that name?” he asked.

“Sophronia mentioned it to me,” I said, feeling a little guilty. “She said that it was a shame, or that she was sad about it, or something like that. She would not say anything further when I pressed her on it. I am sorry, Holmes, have I said anything out of turn?” For my friend's face was quite pained.

“No,” said he. “No.” There was an interminable pause, during which he patted at his pockets for a cigarette and match. Only when he had inhaled a lungful of the tobacco did he look at me again. “I have not heard that name in years,” he said. “I do not know if I can speak of it now, or here. It is a painful memory, John. Can you give me a little time?”

“Certainly,” I said, concerned. “You do not have to tell me at all, if you do not wish me to know of it.” My heart felt heavy. My friend had been keeping a secret, something that he did not wish me to know of. Something that he could not trust me with? 

We returned to the ballroom, each now preoccupied with our own thoughts. We mingled with the guests and made polite conversation. Mycroft and Sophronia formed a tight group with the Prime Minister and a lady whom I presumed to be his wife; there was animated talking and much laughter. I wondered for an abstract moment if Mycroft might be telling of his unusual gift. The pastries and rolls were quite delicious, as was the Champagne which we found after several glasses had the effect of lifting both our moods again. When the musicians changed their tune to a waltz and guests took to the floor to dance, Holmes took my elbow and steered me from the room.

“No dancing,” said he. “Let us retire.”

We entered our rooms by our own doors for appearance's sake, even though there was no-one at the landing. I joined my friend in his room as he was taking off his tie, already moving across to meet me. He took me in his arms, pushed my jacket and shirt collar to one side and took several deep breaths of my skin. I shivered at the sensation.

“You smell divine,” said he, in a mumble. “Those bath oils. I have been wanting to do this all evening.” He nuzzled, made to push me back towards his bed. I resisted, reluctantly, for I knew what it would lead to and it surely was not wise. Holmes mewled in dissatisfaction.

“John,” he said, “please. Just for a moment.”

He managed to lower me, pushed me back, crawled beside me. I held him close; we kissed. We lay for several minutes that way, doing very little. Holmes turned away, made to unbutton his trousers; my hand stayed him.

“Not tonight,” I said. “When we are home. Only earlier today you were babbling about being discreet by necessity, were you not?”

He abandoned his buttons, annoyed now. “I do not babble,” said he. “And I remember perfectly well what I said. This is quiet and this is discreet. The Prime Minister is not about to knock on our door asking to borrow a cup of sugar.” He peered at me, saw my expression. “John, that was a joke.”

“I know,” I said. “And we have both had rather too much Champagne, and I am about to fall asleep and I would be little use to you anyway.” I kissed him on his pouting mouth. “We shall be home tomorrow,” I repeated. The statement only encouraged an eye-roll from my friend.

And only then, as we separated to prepare for our solitary night's sleep, did my wine-soaked thoughts return to the name that had provoked such a strong reaction from my friend. Ulysses. Who could that be? Or perhaps, even, what? I hoped very soon he might tell me.


	11. The Circle Completes

We departed the next morning early, before breakfast. “I shall telegraph Mycroft to apologise,” said my friend in an unusual resolve of understanding. The train journey back was unremarkable; our arrival at 221B the same for as I had suspected, there were no letters or urgent summons awaiting Holmes's immediate attention. I called down for our landlady to come and light the fire, for the air was frigid within our sitting-room. Holmes lit a pipe, threw himself into his chair and leaned back with an expression of bliss.

“Thank heaven,” said he. “At last, a quiet room with no rabble.”

“By 'rabble', I suppose that you mean 'guests',” I said.

Holmes smiled. “I wish them well, and that they will be happy,” he said, I think referring to his brother and his wife. Then he foraged on the floor to the right side of him and unearthed a paper bag which he lifted to his lap.

“I had almost forgotten about this,” said he. “I bought it at the same time as that statue.”

“I do hope it is not the male variation,” I said, frowning, as Holmes untied the parcel and lifted the lid of the box. 

“Oh, it is better than that,” said my friend.

He drew forth the silver monkey skull ashtray/nutcracker abomination with considerable pride. He set it down upon the small table beside him and gazed at it in devotion.

“Isn't it gorgeous?” he said, turning to me.

By this point I had given up attempting to reason with his mad impulses.

“The two of you make a fine pair,” I said dryly. “Did you purchase anything _else?_ ”

He smiled at me curiously. “I might have,” said he, enigmatically. “But later.”

I vowed solemnly to myself that if it was the Red Indian headdress then it would be despatched to the rubbish bin as soon as was practical. I looked around for any further evidence of packages or brown paper but could see none. We took a late breakfast of eggs, toast and coffee, and looked down out of the window at the Sunday morning promenaders. I was about to suggest that we retire to our room on the pretext of unpacking, with the reality of a deal more, when Holmes spoke.

“You would wish to know of Ulysses,” he said softly.

“Yes, if you might tell me.”

He sighed, pushed his cup and saucer aside and leaned one elbow on the table to prop his chin. 

“I had pushed it away to the back of my mind, John. As you recall, I did not even speak of dear Mycroft until two years ago. Matters of family have always rung strangely with me, although I am now trying my best to make amends in certain areas. Ulysses is the elder brother of myself and Mycroft.”

I drew breath sharply. “ _'Is'?_ Holmes, you have another brother?”

My friend made a surrendering gesture. “Is. Was. He is more likely dead, John. Ulysses was my elder by 10 years, and Mycroft's by just three. Of my two brothers, I felt the closest tie with Ulysses despite the difference in our ages. I followed him around everywhere like a shadow. He did not mind it. Our childhood was strange and cruel. Our father was a man thwarted in his ambition to appear on the stage – unsurprisingly, for he had no discernible talent whatsoever in that direction. He took to drink. When he was not mistreating one or the other of us he would hide away in his study for hours or days on end. Our mother was a remote, weak-willed woman, content to chivvy us around an unending stream of nannies, who would never stay for more than a few months as they would grow to become afraid of our father.”

Holmes paused, drilling his fingers upon the table. I reached out my hand to take his, but he moved it away in his distraction. He continued:

“I was seven years old when it happened, John. Ulysses was 17. He had gotten himself in trouble with some girl, I think, or had fought with her brother, or even both, for there was a scandal between the two families. The result was that the house was in an uproar, and father was terribly angry, and Mycroft and I cowered away from it all, praying that it might blow over as the rows usually did after a time. But father caught hold of Ulysses, and he beat him terribly. I remember it clearly. My brother ran away from home that night. He never returned, not to collect the remainder of his belongings, nor even to say goodbye. He was gone. He never wrote a letter or sent a telegram that we knew about. Father would not speak of him again, and our mother was destroyed by it. Mycroft did attempt to comfort her in some small fashion by telling her that our brother had likely run away to London to find a good position and become a wealthy fellow – for he was quite smart enough to do so, being similar in that regard to us boys. But he never made that contact, even after we had grown up and left home and become well established in our own right, in that he might find us very easily without looking very hard. And I made enquiries after him, too, and Mycroft would do the same over the years. Eventually we had to conclude that he had come to his grief upon his travels. Perhaps he never even made it out of our town. That is the story, John, and it is the most that I will ever speak of my childhood or my parents, so please do not ask me any more of it.”

I covered his agitated hand with my own and squeezed it. I quite realised the great effort my friend had made to relate that much to me, for his eyes were upon the tablecloth as if he were somehow ashamed and blamed himself in some manner for what had occurred. A tiny window had opened for a brief moment upon his early youth. I began to realise then how gravely these events had shaped him and his brother, and to understand the greater his complexity. My own upbringing had been relatively charmed, with loving parents and a great many happy days and memories. I could hardly imagine how life must have been for my friend, shutting himself off from company and feeling with his books and his science.

“It was not your fault,” I whispered. “And Ulysses might yet be alive; perhaps in another country, under a new name. He may return.”

Holmes shook his head. “I do not think it likely. But thank you.”

“Thank you for telling me,” I said. “And I am sorry.”

He smiled then, although his eyes were still downcast, and he lifted and tugged at my hand. I was drawn around to his side of the table, ending up sat in his lap. He butted me with his head.

“You are my rock,” said he.

“A rock that will crease your trousers if it remains sitting here for too long,” I said, and kissed him.

He chuckled. “I do not care. No, wait. Get up. I think that I should do this now.”

“Do what?” 

I arose from his lap and returned to my breakfast chair. Holmes pressed a finger to his lips and rose also, crossing the room to his bedroom where he disappeared inside for a few moments. I heard the turn of a key, a drawer opening and shutting. He re-emerged with nothing evident to show for it, but his face had the strangest expression as he approached me. He seemed to change his mind, then.

“Come over here and sit in your chair by the fire,” he said, pointing.

I began to feel a little curious. “Why? Holmes, what _are_ you doing?” But I did as he asked of me. I looked up at him as he paced and turned about nervously. “My dear fellow, you are making me anxious,” I told him.

He set his resolve, then, and came to stand directly before me. His hand riffled in his trouser pocket.

And then he lowered himself to one knee on the rug at my feet.

I stared, incredulous.

From his pocket, Holmes drew a small box which he opened and held out before him. Inside was a gold signet ring embedded with a small diamond.

“John Hamish Watson,” said he, “would you do me the great honour?”

“The great honour of what?” I asked, dazed, flustered, flushed.

“Of becoming my life partner,” he replied, solemnly.

For a moment I forgot how to breathe.

“I am that already,” I said softly. 

“Yes,” said my friend, “but this will make it official.” He proffered the small leather box. “I love you,” he said, steadily. He was far more composed than I, for I confess that my eyes were filled with wet.

I took the box, lifted out the ring. It was exquisite.

“I accept,” I said. “I love you too, so very much.” I placed the ring onto the little finger of my left hand. “Is this the correct hand?” I asked, laughing unsteadily.

Holmes chuckled. “It will do,” said he. He held up a finger to stay me, then pulled a similar box from his other pocket. “I have one too. With an amethyst.” He placed it upon his own finger.

We looked at each other, smiling stupidly at this sentimental, beautiful moment that my beloved had created between us. And then we were embracing each other so tightly with kisses and endearments.

“That was our wedding ceremony, I believe,” said Holmes, as he rubbed at my cheek with his thumb.

“I cannot think of how it could possibly have been any more perfect,” I said, my heart brimming.

He stood back from me, moved a step towards the door.

“We are honeymooning in 'Paris',” said he. “Which in this instance doubles as your bedroom, John.”

“If that is the case, then I cannot wait to see your Eiffel Tower,” I said, finally regaining both my wits and my indefatigable pawky humour. I think that marriage suits me.

 

– END –


End file.
